Begin Again | ongoing

two

They leave the cosy confines of the coffee shop at ten past one, the night pitch black except for the blink-fizz-blink of a streetlight and the glow of the cafe behind them, and it's so cold that Sunny yells, "Fuck, it's so fucking cold!"

Percolatte is kept toasty warm in the winter, an enticing cocoon that lures people off the streets and away from the ice that blows off the frigid North Sea, so the shock of the February wind is like sandpaper to Sunny's soft cheeks; she and Ravi huddle together as they walk to the end of Main Street, away from the dark, rugged threat of the sea at night and towards the bus that will take them to the street they share. Her flat is at the top of one of the first buildings; Ravi's is at the bottom of one of the last. They didn't plan to live so close to each other but Sunny wouldn't have it any other way.

"Your coat is shit," he says. "You need a new coat, Sunny, I think this thing had seen better days when you bought it."

She wraps the thin flannel thing around herself tighter and vows to invest in something that will last, and she grips Ravi's arm as they walk with their heads bowed towards the stop that services the number 19. It's only a few minutes away but it feels like forever when the wind punches them back and the night sucks up the light, and Sunny is so glad that Ravi came to the cafe tonight, that he comes so many nights under the guise of working when she's fairly certain he's only there to escort her home.

"You're a good friend," she says, internally groaning at how flat her words sound. She has never been good at expressing her thoughts and feelings. Sometimes she wishes she could give people a key to her mind so they can unlock her brain and search through it for themselves. That would be so much easier. "You're the best, really." And then, putting a little Tina into it, she belts off key and too loud, "You're simply the best!"

Someone yells at her to shut up but it isn't Ravi so she doesn't care. Ravi's grinning. Singing random lines of favourite songs at each other has become a form of communication that has leaked into Sunny's day to day life. Ever since Britney Spears' debut album came out last month, which Sunny has spent an inordinate amount of time listening to, she will sometimes find herself singing hit me baby one more time to the ketchup bottle as she smacks it for the last of the sauce.

In a low voice, lower than comes naturally to him, Ravi sings back, "Better than all the rest." His voice cracks on the last word and they laugh, cold cheeks pressed together. He tugs on a pin straight lock of Sunny's mousy hair and curls it around his finger like a pet, until she pats his hand away and tucks the hair behind her ear, now so red from the winter chill that it forms a siren with the blue of her fingertips.

Neither of them have gloves. Both have frozen fingers that they twine together, swinging their hands between them as they strut down the street at a speed that is almost a jog because every moment they're not on a bus is a moment closer to hypothermia. Ravi's right – Sunny's coat really is shit and she can't stop shivering, her teeth chattering so hard it sounds like the enamel could crack.

The bus stop is at the end of the road. Sunny pulls out her purse, digging out a handful of change that makes up today's tips to find the right combination of coins for the bus, as they come up to the strange little house in the middle of a terrace with the wishing well outside the front door – or, as locals call it, The Witching Well. Rumour has it, the elderly couple who lives there are witches. Intellectually, Sunny knows that's rubbish as she has met both Astrid Aarrestad and Celeste Cholmondeley-Parker, and while they both have a sense of style reminiscent of the lovechild of a witch and a hippy, all long flowing clothes and long grey hair, they are perfectly normal women. Well. They're a bit strange. But they're not witches. Just queer elders who keep to themselves.

"Maybe," Ravi says, "we could borrow Delilah's computer and make you a dating profile. If anyone can find you a match, it'll be match dot com."

Sunny huffs, conjuring up that episode of Friends where Chandler did the same. "Dude, how many times do I have to tell you? I don't want to meet some stranger on the internet. That's weird. They could be anyone."