Meatspace. Nikesh Shukla

girlfriend now I’m newly single. I call her Quiltina.

      As if he can feel me stir, Aziz opens my door and comes and sits on the edge of the bed.

      ‘Watching porn?’ he asks.

      ‘No.’

      ‘I never want to catch you wanking again.’

      ‘Then knock,’ I say as he checks himself out in my mirror.

      ‘Actually I do want to,’ he says, turning to me and grinning. ‘I’m not going to lie, I think you have an interesting wank-face. It’s somewhere between “this sweet is too sour” and “my knees are hurting from old age”.’ Aziz contorts his face into a pained cry and simulates juddering hand thrusts. I turn over onto my side and close my eyes.

      ‘Did you and I go out bogling last night? I really don’t remember that,’ Aziz says.

      I try to cover myself up. Just to annoy me, Aziz pulls the cover off.

      ‘That was just for the internet.’

      Aziz pounces on me, pulls the cover over my head and cuddles it. I can feel him humping my body. I try to push him off but he’s too strong.

      ‘Mercy?’ he cries.

      ‘Mercy,’ I say.

      ‘Seriously, I can’t hear you. Mercy?’

      ‘Mercy,’ I call again.

      Aziz pounds away, but I manage to get a knee up to connect with his side. He falls off me laughing. I allow myself a smile. I’m awake now.

      ‘I love you, idiot brother of mine,’ he says. He pauses. ‘What are you up to today?’

      ‘Writing.’

      Aziz laughs sarcastically. He pulls the cover off me entirely. I go fetal. ‘No, but seriously, ladies and gentlemen,’ he says in his 1930s stand-up comedian voice. ‘What are you up to today?’

      ‘Job-hunting.’

      ‘So you’ll be on email?’

      ‘Yeah, probably.’

      ‘Cool. I’ll send you some pop culture gifs to keep you company.’

      ‘Won’t you be busy … you know, working?’

      ‘That’s how I’m so swag, my friend,’ Aziz says, scratching the dark scar on his neck. ‘That. Is how I’m so swag.’

      Aziz heads to the door. ‘Hey man,’ I call to him. ‘What were we doing last night? Singing? SingStar?’

      He turns his head and looks back at me. ‘Do you even remember last night?’

      ‘Yeah.’ I feel my phone vibrate in my hand. A Facebook wall message. I don’t look at it. ‘A bit. I think I had too much chutney. And rum. There was definitely too much beer.’

      ‘Remember what you promised?’

      ‘Yeah. To forget about Rach, move on, stop whining about her and get some writing done.’

      ‘You kept going on about “keeping the wolf from the door”.’

      ‘Yeah. Money is fast running out, my friend.’

      ‘That’s not it,’ Aziz says, smiling.

      I’m beginning to remember bits of last night: 4 big bottles of Budvar in, I was standing on our sofa, clutching 2 jars of chutney, while Aziz held my leg like he was Princess Leia on the cover of the Star Wars poster, and I was Luke Skywalker.

      ‘I am a golden god!’ I was shouting. ‘I am the golden god of literature. I am the golden god of this front room. I am the golden god of fucking chutneys.’

      ‘I thought you hated chutneys.’

      ‘I do, I fucking hate the white man’s chutney. CBE. Chutney of the British Empire. I’m going to get “I H8 CHUTNEY” tattooed on my arm so future girlfriends know where I stand on the chutney thing without even having to ask.’

      ‘Wait,’ Aziz had said. ‘You want a tattoo? I want a tattoo. Let’s get tattoos. We’re getting tattoos.’

      ‘Yes,’ I’d shouted back at him. ‘The golden god will get a tattoo. I want a tattoo. Right now, there is nothing I want in the world more than a tattoo.’

      ‘Maybe not “I H8 CHUTNEY”.’

      ‘No,’ I’d said. I hesitated and thought. In that second silence, Elvis Costello came on the iPod, on shuffle. Aziz joined me on the sofa. He was all the Attractions and I was Elvis, crooning through the gap in my front teeth.

      ‘Chapt-uhhhh waaaaa-hun … we didn’t really get along …’

      ‘I’m going to get “Everyday I write the book” on my forearm. All the way up. I bloody love this song. It’s perfect. It can be a reminder to do my job. And Rach hated that song,’ I said, turning to Aziz as he switched from bass to drums.

      ‘Me too. I prefer “Shipbuilding”. Remember “Shipbuilding”. Always remember it, man,’ he said, bopping his head, his hands tight in the air.

      ‘Chapter wuuuu-huuuun,’ I sang.

      ‘Do you even like that song?’

      ‘Doesn’t matter. I like it. It’s good. It’s like … you know … analogue … like … write, mate, innit … It’s a wicked song. I love this song.’

      ‘I prefer “Shipbuilding”.’

      ‘Nah, that’s shit. This one. Chaptaaah toooooo-woooooo …’

      ‘Get it then!’ Aziz had bellowed. ‘Get the bloody tattoo.’ He’d jumped off the sofa and pretended to be a screaming fan, reaching up to touch me. I let him pull me down. We sang out the rest of the song like we were in the terraces and it was our club’s anthem.

      During the fade out, I said, ‘I’m getting it. I’m bloody getting it. I can be impulsive too. In your face, Rach. Not so “a-fray-duh-of-uh-chay-nudge” now am I?’ I looked at Aziz. ‘I miss her.’ Aziz nodded. He scratched at the ugly scar on his neck, from the bike crash. I looked at my hands.

      I threw the 2 jars of chutney in the bin defiantly. We shook on the tattoo and then, when Aziz was in the loo, I rescued the chutneys and put them back in the fridge, hiding them in the vegetable box where he would never think to look.

      That was last night, I think. Today’s going to be different.

      Aziz has left the flat and I’m checking through Twitter – no replies to my bogling tweet, just some chatter about a recently dead obscure musician, everyone’s coming out of the woodwork and saying they love her – and then through Facebook, to see what my wall message is – it’s a reminder from the organisers of the event I’m doing with Hayley Bankcroft to increase numbers by promoting it to my networks. I ignore it. I DM Hayley back and say, ‘It’s been ages … since I got fresh air. Expect barnacles on ol’ Kitab.’

      She DMs me back almost immediately: ‘Till then, Barnacle Bill the sailor. I’ll see you down by the docks. Xx.’

      No other new interactions. My cousin Veena has just bought a new car. The numberplate says V33D33 – her initials, and accidental comment on her lifestyle.

      I need to get up and write something. I check my bank balance on my phone. It’s not what it was yesterday, which was not what it was the day before and so on. It’s still the most I’ve ever had in my account. I am burning through the inheritance and when it’s gone, and that is a matter of 3 months away, 4 if I live off leftover chutney and force Aziz to actually buy some food, there’s nothing else. I’m not a privileged trust-fund boy. When I told my dad I was quitting the job that I hated to become a writer, he said he was going to give