Chapter Twenty-OneThe alarm clock startles him from sleep. Crawling from bed he silences the sound, staggers into the kitchen and boils the kettle. Crumbs scatter across the floor from the bread that he carries to the toaster. His mouth is sticky, sour-tasting, and as he pours the boiling water into a mug the evening comes back to him; drinks on the balcony with Michael, the sight of the sky and the sea beneath spread out before them, the sound of Michael’s laughter and the press of his arms around him, Michael’s face against his –
Tea overflows the mug, rushing across the work-surface and down the side of the cabinets. It is a moment before he comes back to himself. Sinking to his hands and knees he chases the spill across the linoleum, slowing its spread with kitchen roll. White tissue
