‘Hi, Ruskin.’ Jack strokes Ruskin, but my boy isn’t quite sure who he is yet. Often I find him in Jack’s bedroom, sniffing around or having the audacity to sit on his bed to mark his own territory.Jack has been living with me for three weeks now, but so far we have been like ships passing in the night. However, I am getting more used to his presence. In the morning I can smell his aftershave in the bathroom and fresh coffee coming from the kitchen. I know we’re becoming less self-conscious about living together in that our bedroom doors aren’t quite so firmly shut any more and I don’t run all the taps in the bathroom before I’m about to go to the loo.Late at night when I’m in bed I find the sound of Jack’s key turning in the lock comforting. I imagine him knocking on my bedroom door and lying beside me, taking my face into his hands and kissing me. During the quiet moments in the shop, I find myself fantasizing about him, hoping our collisions on the landing or under the kitchen table are going to develop into something more 18-rated.‘Did you have a good weekend?’ I ask him, shoving the remains of a quiche that needs to be eaten into the oven.‘Weekend?
