They’re still loading their van as I move in. Young, perhaps half my age. He’s broad and muscly, she’s tiny.
     ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Delay with my new place.’
     My, not our.
     She hardly nods, doesn’t smile, says nothing.
     I heft my stuff up the stairs. There isn’t much. I’ll go to IKEA later.
     We manoeuvre around each other, slow-dancing with boxes.
     ‘It’s yours,’ I hear her hiss, as I hover on the landing. ‘I don’t even like Miles Davis.’
     ‘I gave it to you,’ he says. ‘For your birthday.’
      The drab little flat is choked with sadness, a postcard with ‘Greetings from Cornwall’ on the kitchen floor. Anna and I had once had a fortnight in Fowey, had once been each other’s everything, probably won’t be again.
     As the girl lugs a bin bag out of the bedroom, it splits, spewing clothes and make-up, scrunchies and bangles. I drop down, scoop up a bundle, and wait for her to move so I can dump it on the bed. When she doesn’t, I back into the lounge and drop it on the sofa. 
     Finally, they’re ready. They both give me a set of keys, first him, then her. 
     Earlier, I’d dangled my keys on my finger, let Anna grab them, like a prize at a funfair.
     I offer my hand, like we’ve concluded something important. His shake’s painful, hers barely there.
     I close the door, pull out my phone, and find myself pressing Anna’s number. Before it rings, I end the call.