Drop by Mat Johnson

didn’t find it, only three hours after walking into that big warehouse at the edge of Camden Market. It should have taken months. I only agreed to it because I thought we’d never find one (the woman always knew exactly what she wanted, so much so she rarely found the thing that met her image), but there the bastard was, just like she’d described it in bed the morning before, and for a price that would have hurt in dollars let alone pounds.
    ‘Look, I’m just saying,’ I said as the cabby swerved before us, leaning into curves as he negotiated them, trying to get past meandering North London alleys to the Thames, ‘we could have waited. I can’t keep spending like this. I’ve got no savings left.’
    ‘I thought you wanted it,’ Fi whispered, staring down at the oversized cast iron spider in her lap. Of course I do, of course I do. It’s a nest we’re building and I love every straw. No, you don’t have to pay for it. No, I already paid for it, I got it. You’re being silly, you’re not even getting work right now. No, I didn’t mean that. You look great. The house looks great. I don’t need the money. I love it, really, I was just saying.
    Victorious, Fionna leaned against me, my head gaining pain as the cab’s meter gained fare.
    When we walked inside my flat the answerphone’s red eye was blinking. ‘Chris, it’s David. I’m going down to the brasserie. Stop by when you get in.’ I hit Erase but Fionna, coming in behind me, had already heard.
    ‘Oh come on, Chris. It’s Sunday. Can’t he leave you alone?’ But he sounded like crap, didn’t he?
    ‘He always sounds like shit, doesn’t he?’
    He sat near the front, at a small table by the bar, a full pint before him. ‘That’s yours,’ David said, pointing at the glass, its small careful bubbles, its pale complexion.
    ‘Cider?’
    ‘Nice one. Big hand for the boy.’ David showed his palm to me like a TV Indian.
    ‘Where’s yours?’
    ‘That’s what I want to know.’ And he yelled over to the bar and one was brought to him. Twin beverages, both cold in hand, were raised so that they could clink together. ‘To the women,’ he said, before the glassy sound, and when the sides of our glasses had kissed he raised his glass slightly higher to the room before dropping it to his mouth. I looked around over my shoulder, but there was no one but us and the TV that remained on and muted behind me.
    ‘How’s your little lady, then?’ he asked.
    ‘Fi? Fine, really.’
    ‘How’s the whole living together part going?’
    ‘Well, fine actually. I mean, she’s not working right now, first the sprained ankle and then just a lack of work. She goes into the West End like every week for auditions, but nothing. I love it though. She’s always there. She feeds me. The house looks great, like a home. I haven’t been under a roof with a woman since my mom passed. It’s nice coming home knowing someone loves you.’
    ‘Isn’t it, though,’ David said, then drank again.
    ‘Yeah, but like, shit, just now, she’s got me coughing up mad cash for crap to decorate the house, right? So today I start in with the “maybe we should wait” line and the next thing you know I’m apologizing in the cab from Kensington High Street to Stockwell, you know? And it’s Sunday, too, and I know those damn cousins of hers are going to be coming by to eat my food.’
    ‘The Nigerians.’
    ‘Right. She cooks it and all, but who pays for it? I hate those bastards. They come over and talk in Yoruba the whole day. The only time they talk to me in English is when they’re asking me to pass something or telling slavery jokes. That shit ain’t funny.’ David started giggling though, staring past me. ‘Well, maybe a little funny,’ I admitted. He was still giggling, looking over my shoulder. I turned in my seat to see the TV again and there was a commercial, not a very good one. I turned back, ready to critique and complain, but now he was staring straight at