I thumb through your CDs while you stand at the worktop, your worktop, doing something to asparagus.
Simon And Garfunkel.
Dirty Dancing soundtrack.
Bob Dylan's Blood On The Tracks.
"That's not mine, that's..." you trail off without looking over and I get up to prowl around your living space. I knock my leg off the table and a plant falls over somewhere else in the room. Behind me.
Disoriented, I examine your books. No Marian Keyes. No Cathy Kelly. No easy reads, just dictionaries and old covers, some travel books and journals. Folders and files and biographies of ordinary people who did remarkable things.
I see the picture of you with your dad when you were...
"I was six, I think," you say without my asking. "That's my favourite one of the two of us."
There are no other pictures, just the things that, in their own curious way, have led to you standing there with a plain white tea-towel, looking at me looking at your life, mischief in your eyes and calling me nosey.
"Make yourself useful," you hand me the wine.
We sit, I pour, we eat. I have to ask.