Finishing all but one bite, she pushes her plate to the centre of the table and says, ‘I think I’ll probably explode.’ Yet, half done with my tart, hunched against my posture, I catch her feasting with her eyes. ‘What’s it like?’ she asks, in a salivating lisp. ‘Mine was pretty rich.’ Fine, I tell her, and slide my plate towards the gape of her reply. ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly,’ she says, but the dessert fork is meagre in her hand, silent as its dainty tines are wedged into their purpose, neither of us with the will to object.

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