K is throwing a few things into an overnight bag and I’m on the other side of the bed pretending to do the same, although really I’m just hanging around.
“Explain to me exactly what you mean,” she says, coiling the flex around some kind of hair tool, “by lunch.”
A doozer of a question. Not for the first time, I take a good long look at my fiancée.
“Something to eat,” I reply – an uncertain, questioning inflection finding its way into my voice, “in the middle of the day.”
She’s brushed past me and is gathering up small bottles and vials in the bathroom. No response.
“A light meal,” I call after her, “in the early afternoon?”
She returns with a bag of cosmetics and a faceful of scorn.
“I know what lunch is, you moron. I meant what did you have in mind?”
Once again she has me on the back foot. I hadn’t thought the suggestion a controversial one.
“I, eh, didn’t…I don’t really…” I drop the pair of boxing shorts I’ve been fidgeting with into my little case, “I just thought we’d…you know…we might…eat something.”
“In La Cañada?”