We spent our first night as far away from each other in his lounge.     I was on the squashy coffee-coloured chair his father always sat on; you seemed continents away, on the couch on the other side of the room.     We did that thing where we look at each other but turn away as soon as the other person notices. It wasn’t flirting with no words. The air was swollen with shyness.     The television was on. We drank whatever fizz was placed in our hands.     You were awkward and quiet and I liked that - maybe we are fascinated by people just like us. I wanted to wrap my arms around you like a blanket, but I didn’t want to close you away and vanquish the light, I wished you could have opened up.     I followed you into the kitchen, my mind whirring with the possibilities, each one more unimaginable than the last.     The list of ‘things I now know’ grew at a reckless pace; the chocolate mole beneath your left ear, the glint of a piercing, the Irish tinge to the accent that lodged in my head and played endlessly for hours. Then the inescapable silence. The inability to instigate.     I threw a lukewarm answer back at you as if a shuttlecock barely flopping over the net. You said something about you weren’t staying long. You left the kitchen, and then I did.     On the chair in the lounge we went back to snatching glimpses of each other for a handful of seconds. And I bubbled full of frustration, annoyed at my cellophane-made response, wanting to punch myself in the jaw for not being better, for not being normal in a rather normal circumstance.     My eyes were sacks of rocks. You kept twiddling a strand of your hair, and the night sank like a kid dunking a plastic ship in the bath.