“Yes.”
“For the article?”
A faint colour touches his cheekbones.
“Partly.”
“Only partly?”
He meets my eyes then, which is either brave or reckless.
“No.”
Something warm and inconvenient moves through the room.
I should not like that answer.
I like it far too much.
“No,” I say.
His expression changes, but only slightly. He is trying very hard not to look pleased, which is unfortunate for him because he is not as good at it as he thinks.
“No partner?” he asks.
“No partner.”
He nods once, as if writing the information somewhere more private than his notebook.
“And is that because of the job?” he asks.
“Mostly because I’ve yet to meet anyone who improved on being alone.”
His mouth curves. “That’s a high bar.”
“It’s a reasonable one.”
“I’m sure it is.”
I should move us on.
I do not.
“The job doesn’t help,” I say. “The hours are difficult. The responsibility is difficult. Sometimes people like the idea of someone who does this job more than they like the reality of living with it.”
“The missed plans?”
“The missed plans. The tiredness. The fact that I don’t always have the energy to make myself softer when I get home.”
His face quietens.
I realise too late that I have said more than I meant to.
Then he says, “I don’t think softer is always better.”
And there it is again.
That small, dangerous thread.
