A conversation about going on a diet
What time do you call this?
She’d arrived first and was sat more or less in what was fast coming to feel like our usual place, in what was becoming our usual cafe.
“What time do you call this?” Her challenge was exaggerated by the tapping of her left wrist with the shiny lacquered talon on her right index finger.
A gesture that in days past, would have generated the subtle dull chink of manicured nail on glass, but now only made fleeting impressions on skin.
“I call it two minutes early,” I replied after looking at my phone. I’d given up wearing a watch decades ago. I didn’t imagine she’d ever worn one, growing up with mobiles.
“I’ve been sat here ages,” she said, with arched eyebrows and that mock tone that claimed the moral high ground for the overly punctual.
“I’d like to say how sorry I am about that,” I said wielding one of the most insincere and two-faced of corporate cliches, “but I’m not, so I won’t”
“You’re all charm this morning,” she replied, as she rose from the table and offered, “What do you want, the usual?”
