Free Meatspace by Nikesh Shukla Page A

hipster bar near the pub that has nothing to do with books despite its name. Their official Twitter handle is @welovebooksbitches. I walk down the steps into the exposed-brick basement, wave my way past the pretty middle-class white girl handling the door and I enter the venue. I get a Twitter notification. Someone called @HannahBananaMonana has just tweeted: ‘@kitab is in the house. Spicy.’
    Because all Asian guys are spicy. We all smell of curry.
    There are about 20 people in the room, mostly writers and the odd publishing person, an agent or a publicist. The rest are girlfriends and boyfriends and the odd actual fan of people standing up in front of rooms full of people and telling stories in that slow soporific voice.
    I greet the people I know with a mixture of pleasantry and aloofness so I can work my way to the organiser, May, and keep the supply of beer flowing. I’m being paid in beer, which is fine because what else would I be spending my money on. I kiss May hello. She says I look different. I amiably ask what’s changed. She smiles. I smile back. There’s something between us. Definitely. I sit with the other readers, a couple of people I’ve met before and one I haven’t. One of them is the beautiful Hayley Bankcroft.
    Today she shows me more attention than ever before and I think, Hmmm, this is interesting – what’s different about today? There is something. There is a new energy in her greeting. I haven’t seen her since I broke up with Rach. Whenever I was with her at events, I would get the jittery stomach, fluttery sentences and the inflamed skin of a man with a crush on someone other than his girlfriend and a girlfriend called Rach. Now I’m single. And I’m pretty sure she’s still single. There is pressure now.
    Once we got drunk after I’d done a reading and I asked her why she was single. ‘Because I’m in mourning that you’re not,’ she replied, looking pretend-serious, though I could tell she was serious. We didn’t mention it afterwards, probably consigning it to drunkenness in our heads. My memories of interactions with her, real life ones too, are stacked with little moments like that, that could have gone too far, that didn’t because I was with Rach. Like the other time when we were walking through the park near my flat. Rach was at work. I had the day to myself so I suggested to her that we go for coffee, and as we walked, she linked her arm in mine and we walked with her head on my shoulder. A casual observer would have assumed we were together. The way my heart was pounding, it’s like we were a new couple. And then, there’s the time we kissed goodbye, again drunk, because all my stories with Hayley involve boozing, when a cheek-kiss was misfired and our lips definitely touched. I ran home with the energy and fizziness of a schoolboy that night.
    Now I’m single, these are now moments to take advantage of. Although, now, there’s a pressure to make moments like that happen on purpose.
    ‘You’re a beautiful man,’ she’d said last time we were together. She was joking about my vanity, because I was wearing a new shirt Rach didn’t like and needed compliments, stat. I’m pretty sure she was joking.
    ‘I know you’re placating me, but I’ll take it,’ I replied, watching her face for any sign of truth behind the sarcasm.
    We take our seats. Hayley sits with her cross-leg pointing towards me and her naked arm touching mine. She leans in.
    ‘Alright chico,’ she says, using our usual names for each other.
    ‘Chiquita, it’s good to see you,’ I reply, with more bluster than I’ve achieved before. Confidence towards women. This is a new side effect. ‘It’s been tiiiime …’
    ‘I heard about you and …’
    ‘Rach …’
    ‘That’s the one. A real shame. She was so … organised.’ She sips on her drink and widens her eyes. She smiles into her glass.
    ‘So where have you been hiding yourself? Have you been writing something new?’
    I