One day, he e-mailed me less than twenty-four hours after we’d met,
to invite me for lunch again the very next day.
I could almost believe that someone might enjoy, or at least tolerate, my company over the duration of a brief luncheon,
but it stretched credibility to think that it could happen twice in one week.
Dear R, I’d be delighted to meet you for lunch again, but am somewhat perplexed due to the proximity to our previous meeting.
Is everything in order? Regards, E He replied thus: Got something I need to tell you. See you at 1230 R
We were so habituated to our lunchtime meetings that he did not even need to specify the venue.
When I arrived, he wasn’t there, so I perused a newspaper that was lying on the chair next to me.
Strangely, I’d come to like this shabby place;
the staff, whilst off-putting in appearance, were uniformly pleasant and friendly,
and now more than one of them was able to say “The usual, is it?” to me,
and then bring my coffee and cheese scone without my having to request it.
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