IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

24. Did you mean: milk?

"Bon matin, bon matin, bon matin," Timmy comes into the kitchen, singing his little refrain. (Although he's not singing it. Sort of saying it, really.)

Una looks up from her bowl of shreddies and smiles for a second, watching as he picks up a banana from the counter and begins to peel away the skin. "Did you sleep well?" Timmy asks.

She chews momentarily. Swallows, watching his lips around the banana. "Yeah. I slept ok," she nods. Una looks back down at her cereal, then back up at Timothée. "You?" she asks, and he smiles pleasantly.

"Yes. I slept very well," he says, and Una knows that's a lie because she heard his door opening and closing at three in the morning. Knows it's a lie because she heard the footsteps on the stairs last night and she's seen his clothes stewing in the utility room sink.

"That's good," she says placidly, scraping the last soggy bits of cereal onto her spoon. The sound of metal against her bowl is painfully loud as she realises she has nothing left to say. Una wonders if he's thinking exactly what she is thinking, wonders if he's recalling the way she clung onto him so pathetically last night when he made to move away.

(And Una wants to forget about it - quickly - but just for a moment she remembers his soft sound of surprise as she held onto him. Remembers his arms coming back around her, tightening, pulling her into him. Una looks at his arms in the light of day and wonders how they could have felt so strong.)

"Are you okay, now?" Timmy asks, pulling out a chair. Una looks at his faded little shirt. Glances down to the basketball shorts.

"I think so," she says quietly, and then, because that's not enough: "Thank you."

"For what?" Timmy asks, his eyes flitting upwards to meet her gaze, and it sounds like a trick question. Una doesn't quite know how to respond.

"For, um. You know," she stumbles, pushing the bowl away from her and drumming her fingers on the table. Timothée looks at her, breaking off a chunk of banana and popping it into his mouth. He wipes his fingers on his shirt and Una instinctively looks at his fingers. "The hug," she says quickly, getting up from the table.

She goes to put her bowl in the dishwasher and what Timmy says is cut off by the clank of a bowl. "What?" Una asks, and he turns around in his seat.

"I said, any time," Timmy says. Smiles, and turns back.

Any time.

---

A week later, Timmy is gone again. Una goes downstairs in the morning and he isn't there, scraping the remnants of the marmalade out of the jar, nor is he sitting in the garden, warily petting next door's obese cat.

She looks in the utility room, the downstairs toilet under the stairs. Looks in next door's garden and Frank's room and the sitting room in case he's watching reruns of Come Dine With Me.

In fact, Una looks everywhere but Timmy's room which, in hindsight, is pretty stupid. She finishes her breakfast and goes upstairs. A moment's hesitation outside her own door convinces her to go over to Timmy's, and she knocks gently, inclining her head towards the wood.

"Timmy?"

No answer. She pushes on the door and it creaks open slowly to reveal a familiar looking head of curls, nestled into a mound of blankets. It's only early September, and a mild heat still swirls around the air when you step out in the mornings, but it seems Timmy has taken custody of most of the blankets in the sitting room.

She's half inclined to back out of the room, but something about the peacefulness makes her stay. The air is slightly stale with warmth, and he shifts about, onto one side, then the other, then back again. So maybe he's awake?