I always get caught up between the times of 11 and 6 in the morning. There’s a sort of sadness in the transience of the people you meet. A gaping hole which cannot be filled. Concerts. Standing in the cold queuing for ages. Finally pouring into the stadium. A rush of hot air. Chatter growing steadily. Air pulsating with anticipation. Thin plumes of smoke ribbons in the night sky, I struggle to light the cigarette. I’m too drunk. The shoddy red lighter lent by a friend gets left behind. Nights I try to remember. Try as I might, the blurry pictures and videos are of no use. I forget.    

I come back one night to find the house empty. Nothing but a green light fills the hallway. It’s not alive anymore, thrumming with laughter and anger and hurt. Not what it used to be. I try to cook dinner, and introduce some normalcy back in. What it should’ve been. But all I can taste is bitterness.    

A bitterness. Asparagus isn’t in season for another three months. Why did he make this? It doesn’t go with the lemon and parmesan polenta either. It’s all too fucking bitter. My face scrunches up, displeased. He notices me swirling around the food on my plate, creating a strange-looking mash. A question hangs between us.   

“It’s out of season,” I say out loud.   

“What is?” His eyebrows raise and he mumbles, his mouth filled with food. When did he become so uncultured?   

“The asparagus.” I push my plate away.   

“This took me 4 hours to make Anna. I spent a fortune on the ingredients too.”   

“How much?”   

“About 50 quid including the wine and dessert —”   

“Only £50. It’s fine, I’ll pay you back.”   

I put down my fork.   

“Why didn’t you visit me last month?” I look at him pointedly.   

“The train tickets were too expensive, besides you said there’s nothing to do,” he sighs.   

“That was last year, you know I wasn’t myself. Exeter’s a lovely city. I might have a love-hate relationship with it, but there’s lots to do. You spent the money and made time for Holly. And James. Luke too. Do I have to go on?”    

“Yeah, I’ll see,” he whispers back. Our voices are hushed, the lighting is dim. Who knows when the big light will be fixed? I can’t quite make out his facial expression.   

“You’ll see?”   

“What do you want me to say?” he slams down his cutlery, steak juice splashing onto him. It drips down his tie unpleasantly.   

Someone slams the front door, shaking the pinboard on the wall. It’s crowded with pictures of my housemates from nights out, rusty pins, receipts, letters, stupid inside jokes, recipes, useless things that we held onto for no reason. Something drops from it, I can’t see what it is. It falls flat, face down.   

Image: Still Life with Asparagus and Red Currants, 1696