Raymond reached for my arm, held it for a moment. “You’re doing just fine, Eleanor,” he said.
The food came, and I tried not to look at Raymond as he ate. It was never a pretty sight.
I wondered how Glen was doing. Would it be possible to bring her out somewhere like this,
if she could sit in some sort of high chair at the table with us?
I could see no reason against it but for the small-minded anti- feline contingent who might complain.
“Look, Raymond!” I said, thrusting my phone in his face. He glanced at the first four pictures.
“Ah, that’s nice, Eleanor,” he said. “She looks really settled at your place.”
“Keep scrolling,” I said. He flicked through a few more in a desultory fashion; I could tell he was losing interest. Pearls before swine.
We talked about inconsequential matters as we waited for our coffee.
When it arrived, there was a lull in the conversation, and Raymond poured a sachet of sugar onto the table.
He began to draw in the grains with his forefinger, humming tunelessly as he tended to do when he was feeling anxious.
His cuticles were bitten and his nails didn’t look too clean—he could be such an annoying man sometimes.
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