The fucker stole the phone right out of my hand. I was in the middle of writing you an annoyingly difficult text, waiting at the bus stop to meet you, and before I knew what I was doing, I was running down the street after him, giving chase with unreserved fury.

    He was lightning-fast and heading away from Town, going left then right and past my flat, where the argument had taken place, into Compass Park, where we’d met, past hibernating trees, and out the other side. I shouted, Oi and Come Back and Stop thief, but these accusations disintegrated into bitter puffs of mist, and though I briefly continued to direct more anger at him, saying, That’s my phone and Get back here, what I really wanted to say was I really cannot emphasise how much more difficult and complicated my life is going to be if you don’t give me back my phone.

    I was going to be late, and the embarrassment of being robbed struck me. He stole it right out of your hand? I could hear the incredulity in your voice, a frequent visitor these days, and there was an added sneer in it, mockery perhaps, as though I’d done this on purpose. Suddenly, I twisted the thought around: Maybe you’re the thief.

    I ran harder, but the thief matched me step for step as we ran away from Town, away from you, past houses, and shops, and offices until the StanLife Insurance Building, where you worked, came rushing towards us.

    He wore a bulky hoodie and joggers, and as we approached the entrance, I thought it could be you–you were fit, a gym bunny, and I was conflicted because I was passing the blame when you wanted an apology, a mea culpa, and as we went through the revolving doors, as we cleared the turnstile and hurried across the foyer, I became furious at my athleticism, at the ease with which I ran from you but then you were the thief, you weren’t the thief, I couldn’t tell. I needed to know for sure.

    Bumbling security guards yelled at us as we entered a long Office full of desks, computers, cupboards, and paperwork. To those people without faces, we were indistinct, equal in our guilt and transgression. It threaded us together, created complicity, and altered the unspoken dynamic. Now we shared something, and beyond the shame of being robbed and the guilt of running from you, I felt fear, and in our equilibrium, I fled from it, turned my thoughts to the unsent text on my phone. I needed something better than a variation of please don’t be upset with me or you know I love you, I had said a half dozen times before. But nothing came to mind as we charged through a fire door and out into the street, alarms yelping as we barrelled toward the outskirts of Town.

    Past more offices, more shops, more houses. I thought we must be going to the Airport, and I didn’t want this to end, and I ran harder, to bring it to an end, but the thief ran harder still, meaning I couldn’t head into Town to apologise, to get things back to normal, and my mind darted to my phone and all the things stored on it. Phone numbers and texts and notes and videos and apps and photographs: us on dates, in bars, out with friends, at parties, in all kinds of places, and oh my God, the ones you sent when you were working abroad for a month that you asked me to delete, but I hadn’t.

    I needed to get it back, and up ahead, a man was leaving his flat, his open door closing, and the thief threw himself at it, smashed it back on its hinges, startling everyone within earshot, and bolted inside.

    I hoped he would climb the stairs and I could corner him even though I was scared of what would happen when I caught him.

    But he went straight through the stairwell into the garden, where the trees were newly blossoming, and leapt the rickety fence into a paddling pool on the other side, splashing water onto the grass, through a lawn covered in toys, leaping again, and I thought about our conversation last night when you asked me again where this was going, and what I wanted from our relationship. I went silent, furious, impugned by the implied accusation. Instead of conjuring up marriage or children or growing old together, anything, something you wanted to hear, I thought of Amy’s thighs, and pressing my tongue against them, thought about the sexts on my phone, and suddenly you were leaving, and suddenly I was sorry, but it was too late, and you wouldn’t reply until you asked me to meet you in Town today, and my face burned red as I landed in a garden with sozzled flowerbeds, teary rose bushes, and two blurry old dears at a wonky metal table. They barked with inchoate rage, and as we passed on into a garden of slovenly, boozed-up teenagers and beer-bellied adults, an unexpected giggle trickled out of my mouth.

    On we went through an obstacle course made from the detritus of happier people’s lives: football nets, mucky holes, tennis rackets, flowers, washing lines, concrete, rubbish, fences, care, decay, neglect. I thought about the unsent text and our argument. I thought about Amy and the things I wanted to do to her. I ran harder, and I knew that these were excuses. I could have admitted defeat and taken a bus into Town. I could have arrived late and said sorry I’m late and explained that my phone had been stolen. But I hadn’t wanted to, then or now, and I felt calm in my pursuit of the thief as gardens eroded into parks, became fields and industrial estates, and we were on the road again, passing concrete and sheet metal buildings filled with dangerous machinery on the edge of Town, where reality began to bend, where truth and lies mixed like custom paint.

    Control towers and hangars peppered the landscape, and we ran past long-stay car parks and hotels, bus stops, and exhausted people. We reached Arrivals, slowed, and then he disappeared through the automatic doors ahead of me. Under bright lights and liminal hum, he vanished, and I fell to my knees, crying, my lungs heaving with exhaustion. Then I looked again and there he was, standing in line to buy a ticket, and my relief destroyed me.

    I sidled up, embarrassed, joining the end of the queue. Three people between us; I heard the Customer Service Operative tell him, The next flight to the City is in an Hour and a Half, and That’ll be a hundred and fifty pounds, please, and then he walked past me, head down, crossed towards the escalator that went up towards security.

    I could have grabbed the thief then, almost leaned over and did it, but stopped myself. The Airport was no place for a fight, and I wasn’t angry anymore.

    I bought a ticket to the City and headed to security, where the thief was waiting by the back wall. I smiled, blushed, and he floated off. I made it to the other side and then went through the bright lights of Duty Free into the departure lounge. He ordered in a bar, so I copied, bought my own drink, and sat three tables away from him. Drank my first pint in three long gulps, my eyes glued to the back of his head. He ordered another, and a sandwich, and I did the same, and as I ate and drank, our connection grew. He walked over to the windows and watched the planes take off and land beneath the radiant summer sun. We were harmonized. I did the same, both of us patient and cowed, and I thought of you and Amy for almost the last time.

    I watched the thief until the boarding call came, and then I followed him to the gate. I stood in line to board, another three people between us.

    On the plane, he sat three rows ahead of me, and I smiled. In the air, I drank a few more beers and I thought maybe now is the time for us to have a nice little chat. But I stopped myself again. Not yet, I whispered, not yet.

    The plane landed; the plane emptied. I walked behind him into the terminal. At the luggage claim, he stopped, pulled something from his pocket, and placed it on the carousel.

    It disappeared from view, and I walked up, stood before it like I was waiting for communion until it reappeared.

    A phone.

    My phone.

    I picked it up and looked at him. A smile spread beneath his hood.

    I switched it on and there was a flood of messages. Most of them from you, full of anger, rage, disappointment, grief. Then acceptance. Then nothing.

    The useless message I had failed to send before my phone was stolen sat there like a half-chewed piece of steak.

    I’m sorry about last ni

    I deleted the last two and a half words, then hit send.

    You deserved an honest answer and I meant it. It wasn’t enough, but I was sorry, and that would have to be enough. What else was there to say when it had been easier to flirt with someone else, to run towards the sinking sun, to pursue someone across the open sky than to admit to your face it was over?

    I threw the phone on the ground, and the screen smashed into a dozen pieces. I stomped on it a couple of times and threw it back onto the carousel. I was serene calm, the first glimpses of a sunrise. I looked up and saw him hovering by a vending machine. When I caught his eye, he took off for the exit.

    Through the Airport until we reached a bus terminal into the City.

    There he lowered his hood, and we looked at each other. I saw his face and smiled. He was beautiful and impossible, and I adored him.

    I loved him.

    I loved him in the way I could never love you.

    It was love born from a shared silence. In the burdens we had shed to get here. Neither of us was running anymore. Neither of us had to. We stood facing each other for some time without saying a word as lush green leaves spun themselves into reds and oranges and yellows, falling about us like a burst of rain two weeks into a drought. When the fading sun sank below the horizon, I finally spoke.

    And here’s what I said.