Anybody would be able to tell. The fact of this not working is so very obvious that he can picture it forming a cloud, an area of staining somewhere in his brain which will be exactly the colour of failure – failure being, now he thinks about it, a mix of yellow and acid green. With maybe a touch of brown. Yes, there ought to be brown. Shit brown. Reconciliation, a ramble, pottering in shops, preparation for a smooth start to their night: none of this will happen, only the failure. There is a little rain – dusty, irritating – and more to come, the greyness overhead creeping into their clothes, their skin, while something bruised and potentially drenching gathers above and to his left. Since they passed the library the threat of spiteful weather seems to have been tracking them, almost implausibly watchful. And her shoulders are already locked in that depressive-looking flinch away from him. The usual. So they won’t have a giggle.
