“That’s it?”
“What else should there be?”
I lean back. “Usually there’s at least a polite pause.”
“Ah.”
“Sometimes a question about whether I might change my mind.”
He winces. “Bloody hell.”
“Sometimes the right person speech.”
“The right person should believe you.”
The answer is immediate.
So immediate I cannot quite breathe around it for a second.
I look at him.
He looks back, as if he does not realise he has just said something that has quietly rearranged the entire table.
“You?” I ask.
“No children,”he says.
“Same kind of no?”
“Same kind of no.”
“Not yet no?”
“No.”
“Wrong time no?”
“No.”
“Secretly waiting for a woman to unlock your paternal destiny no?”
His mouth curves. “Definitely not that one.”
I laugh again.
It comes easier this time.
“Okay then.”
“I like kids,” he says. “In manageable doses. I’m good for jokes, sweets and returning them to responsible adults.”
“Exactly.”
“But I’ve never wanted to be a father. Not in the deep, certain way I think people should want it if they’re going to do it.”
That settles something in me I had not realised was waiting.
Not because we are planning anything.
