A man in a chequered football shirt
opens the door. Yeah?
He unashamedly stares at my cheek.
Is Kelly-Anne home?
My shoulders are burning.
I put down my backpack.
Kels? Nah.
I doubt we’ll see her again.
She buggered off, didn’t she?
He lifts junk mail from the mat,
flicks through it,
steps outside
and bungs it into a wheelie bin.
She’s in Aberdeen.
Got a job in sales. Owes me rent.
He picks his ear, stares at his finger
like he might discover something fascinating.
Try her phone. Not that she’ll answer.
I’ll try.
I don’t tell him
she hasn’t replied to my messages recently either,
or that it seems pointless
if she’s in Aberdeen and
I’ve come to Cornwall.
We are a whole country apart.
You all right?
The man examines my backpack.
I better go, I say.
Do you have somewhere to go?
His expression has softened.
A cat is nudging his trainers.
I don’t know.
But not home,
I know that for sure.