“And?”
She wasn’t looking at me, but I stared at the side of her face as she stirred the pan.
“What, ‘and’?” I prompted, putting my hands on my hips.
“You’re dating the guy, and the best you can come up with is a list of his surface level attributes and that he’s ‘really nice’?” She threw me a look over her shoulder.
“We’ve only been dating a couple months,” I grumbled.
“And yet you’re stuck on ‘really nice’,” she scoffed. “Where’s the fireworks? Where’s the honeymoon stage? What does he like to do on his days off? What does he think about your degree? Does he know you hate mushrooms?”
Actually no. He’d brought me a mushroom risotto once on a surprise office lunch date. I’d choked it down to be polite. The memory made my lip curl. I really hated mushrooms.
“There’s fireworks,” I protested. “But they’re the silent type that won’t upset the neighbour’s dog.”
Becka laughed.
“Okay, fine, you’ve not opened up all that much, that’s fine, you’ve been through a lot,” she conceded. “What about him? What do you like about him?”
I opened my mouth to reply, to tell her about… what? Shit.
“He’s funny!” I exhaled in relief, but Becka only huffed.
“Everyone’s funny. Try again.”
“Did I mention he’s gorgeous?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he is. And kind.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me about that.”
“What?” I asked distractedly.
“The kindness.”
“Oh. Well, he’s really nice-”
“-You’ve said that.”
“-and he’s sweet.”
“Yeah? How?”
The way Becka was firing questions at me made me so flustered that I knocked over the wine bottle I was opening.
“Fuck! Look, who’s the journalist here?” I bit out, grabbing a tea towel to wipe up the mess.
Becka moved the pan off the heat and turned to me, folding her arms across her chest.
“Babes, none of these are difficult questions. These are first date questions. Are you telling me you know nothing about your boyfriend?”
I almost choked. I’d just taken a sip from my glass after tossing the soiled towel in the sink. I coughed and Becka moved to slap me on the back.
“I’m fine,” I wheezed, wiping my mouth across my sleeve, “I’m fine, stop thumping me.”
“I know his Dad died when he was a kid. I know he has a ton of family in London. I know he’s in a photography club called the ‘Shutter Nutters’. I know he hates olives – but only the green ones, he doesn’t mind the other ones. I know he wants to move into current affairs photography, and I know he’s secretly terrified of flying!” I silently tacked on an ‘ah ha!’
