(Continued from Size Matters)
Tristan‘s section is deserted except for him. I double back, lunch in hand, and take the swivel chair next to his. We talk about the singular form of ravioli (my lunch), his recent illness (particularly common in women over 40 apparently), sky-diving as a potential cure.
‘How have you been?’ he says.
‘Good. Been dancing a bit more these last few weeks. Yeah, things have been good.’
‘A few… but I think it’s nearly at an end.’
‘I don’t think we want the same thing.’
‘We’re not on the same page,’ I add.
‘Is he a slow reader?’ Tristan says. ‘Did you meet at your book club?’
I laugh. Tom would never make a joke like that, which makes me feel slightly better about the whole thing.