He Left a £4.99 Umbrella at My Feet. Three Months Later, I Left My Key on His Table.

Rain hit the awning of the Tesco Express on Old Street. Callum went in for cigarettes and found Mara outside the door, holding an old film camera to her chest. The lens cap was off. Water spotted the glass. She wiped it with her sleeve, smearing the drops into long streaks. She wore a green raincoat with a broken zip. Her hair stuck to her forehead.

Callum bought a transparent umbrella. £4.99. He peeled the tag off, snapped it open, and set it on the pavement by her feet. Handle toward her.

"Yours?" she said.

"Shop's," he said, and walked into the rain.

She used it anyway. The tag stayed on the rib. £4.99. She never tore it off. For weeks the umbrella lived by her door, dripping onto a takeaway menu she never read. She thought about him once, in a queue at the post office, and then forgot.

Three months later, she was in his bathroom. The hot water cut out mid-shampoo. She stood there, freezing, suds sliding down her neck. He knocked. A towel appeared through the gap in the door. It was warm. He had put it in the dryer for ten minutes. She wrapped herself in it and smelled cotton and dryer sheets. When she came out, he was standing in the hall, one hand still on the dryer door. He had never let anyone use that bathroom. Not his sister, not his ex, not the plumber. He had mopped the floor before she finished drying her hair.

She got ill in November. A fever that turned her bones to glass. He made tea with lemon, honey, and a thumb of whisky. The kitchen light stayed on until two. He put a single paracetamol on a saucer and slid it toward her. She drank two cups. She saw the saucer. She didn't ask. He took her cup away, his fingers brushing the rim, pausing there. The radiator clicked. She fell asleep on his sofa. He put a blanket over her and went to bed. In the morning, the blanket was folded on the armrest.

She kissed him first on a Sunday. The film had ended. Credits rolled. She leaned in. His breath caught. He said, "Okay?" She didn't answer. His hand rested on the back of her neck, no pressure. She nodded. Then his phone rang. He declined it. She pulled back and picked up her glass. He pushed his glass one centimetre closer to hers. The base scraped the table. He didn't follow.

She left her charger at his flat. He fixed the squeak in her camera's advance lever. She bought a plant for his windowsill, a monstera, small, three leaves. He moved it twice before deciding it belonged near the fridge. She started staying over on Tuesdays. He started buying Greek yogurt because she ate it with honey. He hated yogurt. He bought it anyway.

They went to a pub in Bethnal Green. She took his photograph. He didn't smile. She said, "You look like a man waiting for a train." He said, "I am." She laughed. She ordered chips and vinegar. He watched her eat. She asked him about the bathroom. He said, "What about it?" She said, "You never let anyone use it." He said, "You're not anyone." She stopped eating. The pub was loud. She picked up another chip. He looked at the table.

She got the grant. Three months in Iceland. She packed her cameras, her cables tangled into a knot. He watched her from the sofa.

"Message me," he said.

"What's it to you?" she said.

"Leave the key."

She took the key off her ring. A small plastic duck dangled from it. She put it on the table. He looked at the duck. He didn't move. She opened the door. The door didn't latch. Wind pushed through the gap. He sat there until the duck stopped swinging. Then he put the key in a drawer, next to a screwdriver.

He washed dishes with lemon-scented soap. Two pumps. Foam up to his knuckles. One towel missing from the rack. A tub of Greek yogurt in the fridge, two days past its date. He opened it and took a spoonful. Sour. He spat it into the sink. He washed the tub and set it on the windowsill. The monstera's leaves drooped and touched the rim. Every morning he watered the plant. Water leaked from the tub and left a small ring on the sill. He didn't wipe it.

He found her note in a coat pocket. It said: "The umbrella is yours. £4.99." He put the note in the drawer with the key.

She came back for the lens cap. It was on the floor by the door, next to the transparent umbrella. The tag still said £4.99. She picked up the lens cap. She left the umbrella. She left the key on the shoe rack. The plastic duck faced up.

He came home and saw the key. He put it in his pocket. He didn't call. He bought a ticket to Reykjavik. He didn't tell her.

The exhibition was in an old warehouse near the harbour. Her photographs hung along the far wall. One showed a window, a sill, a monstera, a yogurt tub. Light came from the left. He stood in front of it. She walked up beside him, a paper cup in her hand.

He gave her a box of paracetamol. She took it and put it in her bag. She asked, "Where are you staying?" He said, "Next door." She laughed once. They sat on the concrete steps outside and ate chips from a paper cone. She handed him a chip. He ate it. She said, "See you tomorrow." He said, "See you tomorrow."