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me that she hated. And then she killed super-villain me while working with one of the copies of me. And then you put me back in a proper body, and we were just… God, here. And it’s been good, you know, rediscovering trust, friendship, all that stuff, but there’s also, well, it’s difficult for a man to use the word ‘frisson’ and to be taken seriously, but that’s the word I’m going to use, and I wouldn’t say sexual tension exactly, but maybe I’ll say ‘frisson of sexual tension,’ just for the lack of a superior thesaurus, and I think that gets the rough basics of the idea across. At least, I hope it does. But maybe, and this really is the rub, to paraphrase the old suicidal Danish prince, maybe it’s just me, and not her at all, and I’m a colossal fool.” He shrugs once more, and takes a more substantial gulp of his pint. “That’s sort of the problem I have,” he says.
    History. Yes. Tabitha and Clyde have history. Except really, it’s not a question about the past. It’s one about the future. About the best path to chart, to… to what?
    My hands are getting sweaty again. I take another gulp of my pint and hope no one notices I’ve finished three-quarters of it in two sips.
    “Just feck her already,” Kayla suggests.
    “I was,” Clyde says, shrugging furiously, “sort of, and I don’t mean this to come across as dismissive, or as unappreciative in anyway, because I really do value your input, but I was sort of hoping for something a little more nuanced, perhaps.”
    I look at my pint, try to ground myself. Clyde and Tabitha. Tabitha and Clyde. Their future.
    —a club descending—
    “Look,” I say, staring into the depths of my remaining beer, “you said it yourself, things are good right now. Why mess with that? Just, you know, steady hand on the tiller, sustain the now.”
    Kayla looks at me like I just told Clyde to get naked and start dancing for twenties on the table. “Sustain the now? The feck? What morning-TV, pop-psych, bollocks, propaganda feck-shite is that?” She turns to Clyde, stabs a finger at him like a sword. “Feck her or I’ll feck you up, you feckin’ got that?”
    Clyde swallows. “Well, that is a fairly convincing line of reasoning, yes. I will concede that.”
    I am abruptly, unreasonably angry with Clyde. It feels like something from outside of me momentarily grabbing control. Maybe it’s the beer, but I don’t think it’s had time. But there’s not time to figure out what the impulse is, because suddenly I’m leaning across the table at him. “You’re bloody mad,” I tell him. “Don’t listen to her. Nothing is certain, everything is up in the air. What you have now is all you have. Hold onto it. Keep it right. That’s all you can count on.”
    My hand is shaking so hard, I’m spilling my drink, which is quite the achievement considering how empty the glass is. I force my hand back down to still it, but it just seems like I’m trying to emphasize my point by slamming my glass down.
    There is a moment of silence. Clyde and Tabitha are both staring at me. I think if I could stare at myself, I might do it too.
    “The feck is wrong with you, you weird feck?” Kayla asks with her usual level of diplomacy.
    “Are you all right?” Clyde looks genuinely concerned.
    I shake my head, try to work out where that came from. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t…” What I don’t have is an explanation. The sentence withers and dies. They keep on staring at me. I need to say something.
    “Felicity asked me to move in with her today.”
    Why the bloody hell did I say that? That doesn’t even make sense.
    Clyde and Kayla go from staring at me to staring at each other. Clyde looks back to me first. “That’s a good thing, right?” He looks uncertain.
    “Yes,” I say. It comes out sounding reedy and thin.
    “’Cos you feckin’ love the shit out of her, right?” Kayla adds.
    While my actual attitude to Felicity’s fecal matter is possibly a