‘Errr no,’ I say.
‘Why not?! He’s tall!’
‘That’s not the only criteria!’
I know what’s coming.
‘Grrr I knew you’d say that.’
‘Obviously.’ There’s a pause. ‘He’s quite good-looking too. Tall and good-looking!’
‘Those aren’t the only things that matter!’ I say.
No – what matters is that he corrects criteria to criterion, that I know he’s going to do it and I laugh all the same. What matters is that talking to him on the phone makes me so deliriously happy that I have to pretend I’m drunk on wine, or coffee. What matters is that, when I make a joke and Peter doesn’t get it, I know that he would. That’s what matters.