A story you told once, to someone else
At a party in March you told a stranger about the summer you drove across Portugal with a broken air conditioner. He was by the cheese, apparently listening to somebody else. In August he says, ‘Is that the car with the cough?’ and you stand there holding your glass.
Some people nod politely while waiting for their turn. He had been collecting. Whatever he does with the information later, it is worth asking when anyone last caught a story that was not aimed at them.
The thing you cannot eat
He ordered for the table at a place with a menu in two languages. Everything on the plate was safe. The only person who had mentioned the shellfish to the waiter was him, quietly, before the bread came.
You told him once, in a car, during a conversation about something else. Safety is rarely romantic, and then suddenly it is the only thing on the table that is.
