The A-Z of Us by Jim Keeble

the first thing men do when they break up with someone is to think about their exes. They take out the old map from the bottom of the drawer, with its well-worn creases and loving fingerprints on familiar landmarks, and fondly retrace old journeys.
    On Gemma’s map, Neil isn’t just any old ex. He was her first love.
    I smile at the memory of the two of them in Sheffield that first Christmas, cuddled up on my sofa in the house on Eccleshall Road. I asked them, with weary undergraduate sarcasm, when they thought the wedding would be. Gemma took Neil’s hand quickly in her own, and replied sarcastically:
    â€˜I’m only in it for his money.’
    Neil nodded, and added, more earnestly:
    â€˜We’ve only just met.’
    I liked Neil. He was Scottish, from a Borders farming family, studying Veterinary Science at Liverpool. Gemma met him during rag week when the Liverpool students invaded Sheffield and there was an almighty party in the Student Union. He was about my height, but with the epic chunkiness of a man bred from bull-rearing ancestors, with thick rugby-playing shoulders and thighs the size of children. He and Gemma were inseparable when they started dating, meeting every weekend, doing essays together in the library, campaigning in London against student fees, going to obscure foreign films in which nobody spoke and everyone was naked.
    Neil never seemed jealous of me (not that he had any reason to be). He was always friendly, always good-humoured.
    If I were Gemma, I’d be thinking about Neil. But fortunately, women aren’t that shallow.
    I call Molly from Gemma’s fancy charcoal phone. It rings and rings before cutting to her answering service. I leavea quick message, not mentioning Raj. At the end of the message I find myself mumbling ‘Love you, babes…’, before hanging up hurriedly.
    I panic. I should never have said that. I wasn’t thinking, I’m tired. I’m worried that she will take those three words and construct in her mind a tourniquet that will tighten around her, suffocating her. She doesn’t want to hear that I love her. I don’t love her. They were just words.
    The problem is, women behave differently with words. They treat words with far more respect and seriousness. Men hold little value in language. From an early age we don’t communicate with words, we don’t learn their nuances and subtleties. We kick our footballs, cycle our bikes, punch our best friends, and construct a physical language for ourselves. Words are never as important as actions to the male mind. So in adult life, we cast out words like francs in a world of euros – women think they’re worth something, that we value them in the same way they do. But we don’t.
    It annoys me that Raj left Gemma because of words. It doesn’t seem very manly.
    I wonder if I should call Molly back and explain this theory to her.
    My ankle hurts. I push open the large glass door that leads out onto the garden. The rain has stopped and the evening air is cooler now. In a few days it’ll be September, and there’s already an autumnal crispness. I stand, looking out into the encroaching dusk. I wonder how big the garden is, and whether there are any tomatoes. I think that perhaps, now that Raj is gone, I could plant some for myfriend. Then I feel guilty. It’s still not clear if Raj being gone is a good thing.
    I look out into the shadows and shapes start to form amorphously as my eyes adjust – a few trees, a cement mixer, a spade.
    I don’t understand why Gemma hasn’t told her sister about Raj. As an only child, I dreamed of having a sibling to share confidences with, to unite with against parental tyranny. But I was always on my own. I had an imaginary friend when I was six, but the Astronaut was a useless confidant, only interested in taking rockets to Mars, or exploring the molten core of the earth on my tricycle.
    If I were Gemma, I’d