Some words
deserve a second look.

An omelette with chives, if you like them. And room at the stove for me to make it. There: a desire with ingredients, delivered before I could dress it as a joke. You can make the coffee and look devastatingly sceptical. I should like to do something in your kitchen besides sit on a chair and deliver opinions about its colour. Though nine is a formidable hour at which to discover whether my charm survives chopping.

Both. But yes, I'd eat yours. I was picturing us beside the stove, rather than me installed at the table while you disappear behind a cupboard door. I don't know your kitchen yet. At other people's breakfasts I tend to arrive early and start washing whatever is in the sink. It looks marvellously considerate. It also means nobody can leave me sitting alone with the sugar. I shouldn't have appointed you to coffee duty. You may dismiss me from the pan.

Yes. I knew where everything was, and I could go and fetch something if I didn't know what to say. You couldn't see me arguing with the mustard jar. I liked feeding you; please leave me that without turning the whole supper into evidence. But I would have preferred you asking for potatoes to you being faultlessly polite about something you hated. So I'll risk the corresponding disgrace. I like the middle of an omelette still soft. Is that how you make yours?

Yes. Though you have just confiscated a perfectly respectable paper bag I hadn't yet bought. Nine, no pastries, no attempt to locate your washing-up liquid. I reserve the right to ask where the spoons are. And if the eggs become scrambled, I shall eat scrambled eggs; I wasn't setting you an examination. May I ask one thing about the chair before Sunday? When I come in, will you want me to notice the repair, or wait until you show me?

Yes. I'll sit in it before you produce the history of the second coat. But where will you be? You've described my chair, my arrival time and the permitted distance from your elbow; I still can't picture you eating. I should like your face across the table, rather than your back at the stove. An excellent back, certainly, but a poor partner in an argument. Do you normally sit opposite the blue chair?

A minute is survivable. I retract the demand for continuous eye contact; it sounds exhausting even with you. But I'd like to try the blue chair and then let you have your usual place. I rather want to see the window, reflection included. You can watch me discover that morning light has no respect for theatrical preparation. Would that disappoint you? I said I'd sit in it, not that I'd spend the entire breakfast appreciating your handiwork.

You cleared it before supper? I like knowing that. I shall resist commissioning a plaque. But don't tell me how small I'm obliged to find it before I've had a moment to be pleased. You wanted me there before I asked to see the chair. That changes how I'm imagining Sunday. I won't arrive to reward the repair. I'll arrive because you asked. And now, naturally, I'm curious about the books. Were they interesting, or merely heavy enough to discourage visitors?

I haven't asked to borrow it. Although you have made the furniture manual face formidable competition. I'd like to hear the printed sentence before I see your notes. Otherwise I'll spend the whole passage trying to decide which version of you to impress. Read it to me after breakfast, if you want. I'll keep my own opinion until you've finished. That is a rather more ambitious promise than sitting down, so please appreciate the scale of the offer.

Then I shan't demand a defence with the coffee. But after I've given my opinion, may I ask why you liked it? I don't want to sit opposite you disliking a sentence while secretly wondering whether I've insulted half your life. You can say you don't want to answer. I should rather hear that than watch you explain the author's furniture until I've forgotten my question. Although I admit your furniture has been unusually persuasive tonight.

I shall interrupt the sideboard ruthlessly. But you're already teaching me how to approach this page, and I haven't even seen its number. Would you rather I forgot everything you've said about it? I can't promise that. I can promise to tell you which words annoy me, instead of announcing what sort of woman would defend them. You may still find me unfair. Being allowed to disagree doesn't make me miraculously good at it.

You shut it because of your own note? Now I want to see the margin first, which is thoroughly inconvenient after that magnificent promise. I'll keep it. But may I ask what the note said tonight, or does that spoil Sunday? I'm not asking you to produce a better opinion on this pavement. I'm wondering what you wrote that could stop you reading a sentence you were prepared to argue about for years.

Six words. I refuse to let you economise on the interesting part. And asking why doesn't necessarily cancel her choice; I should want to know what she was choosing between. But listen to me, already taking a position on a book I haven't read. Sunday, you may point that out with devastating restraint. Tonight I'd like to know who heard your old argument. Was it your sister, or someone you particularly wanted to convince?

Then leave the page alone until you want it. We've reached the steps, and I have a much less scholarly request. May I walk you home? To the door, no campaign for a glimpse of the kitchen. I should like another street with your arm in mine. You may consider that a disgracefully slight reason for taking the longer way, but I have exhausted my respectable interest in municipal paving.

Here, then. But I wasn't asking for a certificate of supper's success. I wanted the walk. I can be disappointed without requiring you to repair it; do allow me that small sophistication. And 'probably impeccably' is a shocking assessment of my doorstep manners. I'll stay a minute. Shall we let go of each other's arms so I can look at you properly, or would that make this farewell intolerably ceremonial?

Yes, please. And you may retire the speech; it had a very weak second act. I'm glad you asked for something you wanted here. It makes this a place we chose, rather than where my invitation ran out. I won't pretend I've forgotten the extra street. But I should like to remember your face when you asked me that, so give me a moment before you come closer.

You could have had both. Though I might have stood holding the spoon rather longer than the potatoes deserved. Thank you for telling me now. I was trying so hard to give you an ordinary supper that I missed something I would have liked very much. No, don't come back and correct the evening. This one was lovely. Sunday, if I become terribly attentive to your crockery, you may ask me to look up.

Nine precisely, empty hands, and there: I've sat in the blue chair before offering a single expert opinion. It's comfortable. I'm moving to the window now, as threatened. You may have your usual place. And yes, I stayed by the steps until you turned. I nearly waved with both hands; dignity intervened just in time. Before you put the eggs in, will you sit with me for a moment? I'd like to arrive before breakfast does.

A man carrying a very large plant on the bus. Every time we turned a corner, he apologised to the leaves. I was fond of him by the third stop. And I walked past the bakery without going in, which deserves no medal but did leave me wondering what to do with my hands. Here they are, behaving beautifully on the table. Take your minute. I'd rather hear you laugh at the plant than watch you count seconds for my benefit.

Then leave it there. Though assigning yourself the uglier half is a disgraceful abuse of the serving privileges. Let me see both before you decide which I want. I rather like that folded corner. And here's something I hadn't intended to say: I changed my earrings twice before leaving. The first pair looked as though I expected an occasion; the second looked as though I'd carefully decided not to. These won because I was going to miss the bus.

Something I wanted. I wanted you to open the door and be visibly pleased before you noticed whether I'd brought anything. Absurdly precise, I know. The large earrings were supposed to make that easier, which is a terrible burden to put on jewellery. You did look pleased. I noticed. Now I'm choosing this plate, and I'm eating before we turn my earlobes into a committee. Oh. You managed the middle. That's exactly what I meant by soft.

Nowhere I have to be. I had imagined leaving after the book, though; I didn't want to be the guest you discover is still there at lunchtime. I would like to stay longer. May I decide how much longer after we've eaten? That's less sweeping than matching your entire free morning, but considerably more sincere. And please keep eating. I can see your fork waiting for an answer it isn't qualified to judge.

Yes to coffee. And when we've finished eating, I'd like to hear the page. You needn't clear everything first; I can read beside a disgraceful plate. Although I want to amend one part of our arrangement: don't cover your notes with your hand. A loose sheet would do. Otherwise I'll spend the whole time watching your fingers and wondering whether you're uncomfortable. You have very distracting hands, but that isn't the only difficulty.

Not to answer him. That's the only choice I'd confidently give her. She might be staying, or she might have missed her lift and be furious upstairs. The bag interests me: she carries it back, but doesn't unpack it. Of course, perhaps the next sentence ruins my magnificent detection. On these three alone, I can't tell you why she stays. Now may I ask my personal question? Which words did you give your sister when she asked for evidence?

Please do. I've delivered my opinion with entirely sufficient confidence. And withdraw the missed lift from the evidence; I invented it to show what I didn't know, then rather enjoyed making it plausible. Your window is actually on the page. I want to see what you put beside it. Also, I've finished breakfast, and here is my decision: another coffee and the next page, if you'll read it. I'm staying because I want to hear what happens.

Keep it, yes. But could we copy it onto the loose sheet and turn the page? Your younger self has had a splendidly commanding entrance; I'd like the novelist to get another word in. I want to know whether he calls again before I decide what his first call demands. And I still want the coffee. I am capable of disagreeing with you while holding a cup, despite the obvious theatrical risks.

Have the moment. But I don't think wanting an explanation makes you a magistrate. I want one too; otherwise I wouldn't have stayed for another page. You can be interested in why she doesn't answer without requiring her to answer him. Those are different appetites. There, I've managed a disagreement without spilling anything. May I write that distinction underneath your question? In pencil. Your book has quite enough permanent confidence in it already.

A receipt! How unkind to my magnificent silent rebellion. Though she still doesn't speak, and putting it on the sill isn't handing it to him. I am writing 'understanding her / answering him' here. There. But I want to change my earlier question. Not why did you defend her. What did you like about reading her? You said those weren't the same thing. I'd rather hear about a pleasure than conduct another hearing into your errors.

Then don't check. Although you've made revising sound so attractive that I may become insufferably wrong on purpose. May I read the next paragraph to you instead? I'd like to watch you hear it, for once. Move the book halfway across; I promise not to improve the woman's conduct with dramatic pauses. And keep the sheet where we can both reach it. I want somewhere to put a question that doesn't immediately become a question about you.

Here? 'At the foot of the stairs she stopped to straighten the little rug, although she could already hear him opening the cupboard. When she reached the kitchen, he was standing with his back to the door.' There, a whole paragraph, and you haven't interrupted. I nearly congratulated you; what an appalling hostess I should make in your own kitchen. I want to know about that rug. Do you think she's delaying, or does she simply dislike tripping?

Yes, read it. And fair objection about the certificate; I caught myself issuing it and then announced how admirably I'd caught myself. A tiresome little ceremony. Here, the book is yours. Though 'briskly' can smuggle in an opinion too. You may have her tidying efficiently before I've finished admiring the furniture. I want to hear what changes. And I shall accept 'quite beautifully' without demanding that it acquit me of anything.

I liked your annoyed rug. Mine was threatening to become a symbol; yours has a curled corner and bad timing. Can we leave both on the sheet? 'Delay?' and 'damned rug?' You may supply the more respectable adjective. Then I want the kitchen. He's opened a cupboard and turned his back; I am disgracefully curious about what he takes out. Would you rather read on, or shall I? No audition this time. Choose whose voice you'd like.

Of course. Put the sheet here to keep our place. But I reserve the right to miss the kitchen while we visit the inscription. You have made me interested in an entirely different sort of cupboard. And yes, I supplied the corner; strike it from my account. If she wrote something affectionate, you needn't translate it into an objection before showing me. Though you needn't show me at all. I'll look at my coffee until you decide.

Why did you stop reading with her? There, no embroidered introduction. But tell me what happened, if you can, before telling me what sort of woman it makes you. Did she close the book? Did you take it? I can imagine you arguing over a sentence; I have enjoyed the privilege myself. I can't yet see how the book travelled from her hands to yours. And I don't want to cast your sister from one line of affectionate handwriting.

She asked where to begin. That rather complicates the portrait of a woman refusing to read another word. But reading ahead isn't a hanging offence; I would have been tempted, and considerably less efficient at hiding it. Did you want the book to yourself, or did you want her to reach the paragraph that proved you right? Those would feel different to me. I like arguing with you. I would be cross if you started choosing which sentences I was allowed to hear.

The difference survives. I meant what would make me cross, but I let it sound like a charge against this morning. Withdrawn. The attractive part may remain on the record, preferably in your handwriting. And here is my less convenient correction: I agreed to this pause because I wanted your answer. You haven't stolen the page from me. I still want to read it, though. Is there something else about that afternoon you want to say before I put my finger beneath the next line?

Then listen. 'He took down a cup and set it beside his own. She remained in the doorway. Without turning, he asked whether there was enough milk for two.' There. He has survived my performance without a sinister accent, which shows extraordinary restraint. I thought the second cup was a welcome until I reached the milk. Now I can't decide whether he's offering her something or giving her another thing to manage. Don't tell me what happens yet. What do you hear him asking?

'She came in and turned the second cup upside down. There was a brown crescent underneath the handle. He reached for the cloth, but she took the cup to the sink herself.' Well, she has entered. I want to read to the bottom of the page before we make that washing-up settle their entire household. You moved towards the pencil at the crescent, though. What have I nearly rushed past?

A devastating review of my face. Yes, a minute. Write 'he reaches', because I did hurry past it. But wanting something for her hands interests me more than whether he washes properly. I've dried perfectly dry glasses at parties to avoid joining a conversation. It was wonderfully industrious cowardice. That isn't her explanation; it's why yours caught me. Have you ever taken over a small job because accepting the offered help would mean standing there with nothing to do?

I won't write it down. You can tell me something without acquiring another margin. I do wonder how your helpful colleague felt, watching you check the sum; but that needn't cancel why you stayed. Did you ever stay after the figures were put away? You needn't answer before we finish this page. I'm asking because I want to know, and also because I've just realised I'm quite capable of using a book to avoid saying that plainly.

I am. 'She held the cup under the tap until the mark came away. When she turned, he had moved his chair to leave room beside the stove. She sat down with the wet cup between her palms. Neither of them mentioned the bag upstairs.' That's the bottom. I like him moving the chair. It doesn't tell me what she'll do tomorrow, but I like it. Now I'd rather hear about the evening you stayed than turn over. Will you tell me?