In the window a fan, he waved his hand at the screen. I walked in and looked up the white staircase, the plaster walls a little bashed, from the corners of moved furniture. The car looks good from above, he said. When Sok Hoon left he repainted and he did the painting himself, the walls a pastry colour, with cream trim. The walls were edible. No doors, just arced openings, Spanish. No books, he’d packed and sold his books after Sok Hoon left him. The one bookcase I saw was used for objects. David still read, he just read off the screen on his little pebble, he bought books online and read them on the pebble. I walked into the kitchen and admired his open cupboard with the little tins of condiments he liked to collect from various parts of the world. When he travelled he came home with something preserved or a jar of small fish that had an ornate label, a bear made of treacle or olives wrapped in a red painted ribbon in the claws of a golden eagle. David came downstairs with his luggage, sat it down, then opened the silver fridge and offered me a peach on a saucer.
