Between Friends — Henley Long Sleeve

“Anything new?”

“Not really.”

This is an excellent beginning. Your friend puts the kettle on. You put the bag down. Neither of you has mistaken the invitation for a request to arrive with a finished account of your life.

You have worn the red long sleeve because you like it with your dark trousers and because the small opening at the neck feels like enough of a decision for today. Your friend is still in the clothes they went out in this morning. They have bought a small yellow butter dish, which they describe as boring before spending eight minutes showing you how pleased they are with it. You ask whether it takes a whole pack. They get the butter out of the fridge. There is only one way to establish this properly.

There is news, eventually. A difficult conversation went better than expected. Somebody remembered to call. Someone neither of you likes has been promoted. You agree that this is lovely, then sit quietly with the damage. A person you both know has adopted a dog called Clive. You were managing quite well with the name until your friend mentioned that Clive had eaten a bath mat. You ask them to say the sentence again. They refuse until you have stopped laughing, which now seems unlikely to happen without a considerable change of subject.

Later you look at the clock and discover that not really has occupied most of the evening. The cup in your hand has been refilled without a meeting about it. Your friend asks whether you want something to eat. You were hoping they would.

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