‘He’s well.’ I get a curious glance here. The orange juice does a jig around the plastic table.
‘How are things with you? How’s your work going?’
‘I quit. I’m just on vacation now.’
Yeah, that’s a definite jig.
‘Are you going back?’
‘I’m not really sure. When I have to, I guess. When the money runs out. When I get sick of surfing and spaghetti.’
‘I remember you liked surfing at school. You and… what was his name?’
‘Yukio.’ I shovel more spaghetti in. The sun beams as it passes a solitary racy cloud.
‘Yeah, Yukio. Do you see much of him?’
What is it with strangers and their fingers?
‘No, not these days.’ I swallow and look at my plate. Nearly empty. Better order some more. ‘He’s married now I think. He works as a furniture designer.’
She nods, completely uninterested. I have a sudden image of clingfilm covering a cat, and I shudder.
‘When do you think you’ll be made editor then?’
I’m not really sure how it works. I never saw spaghetti as that interesting. Turns out I can see fingers and eyes a lot more clearly when I eat it. Clouds are suddenly apples. Do you know what I mean?
Of course not. I mean, how much spaghetti do you eat?