The File

I had never stayed the night at his place. In six months, not once.

It was always him who came to me. He said his flat above the yard wasn't fit for guests, that there was sawdust everywhere, that the heating barely worked, that the view was of a brick wall and a skip, whereas at mine there was the sea. It was true. I'd been round three times, during the day, for a coffee, and it was true: two bare rooms, a bed, a table, books on boatbuilding in piles on the floor, a shower in a corner behind a plastic curtain. Nothing on the walls. Not a single photo. I'd told myself he was a man who didn't clutter his life.