He stands, and then looks down at her as she speaks.

‘Thought we weren’t talkin’ about him.’

He wanders to the kitchen, and back again. Alcohol helps the nerves, and he’s tired. That helps too. Less energy available to get angry, or jumpy at random comments. It’s late, and the lights are soft and things feel like they’ve finally turned a corner with her. Being honest has its advantages, it seems.

He sits, and slumps back into the cushions. Without thinking, his feet come up and rest on the coffee table.

‘That prat deserved worse than what you said to him. Don’ worry about it.’