The Ask

—You’re fine then, Fletch.

—Er, what?

—Nothing.

She was stirring her tea slowly. He was watching her stir it.

—Jess.

—What?

—Hmm? Oh, nothing.

The spoon went around. The clock on the wall ticked like it was enjoying itself.

—D’yer like Italian? He said.

—Food or men?

—Food.

—Kinda depends who’s asking.

—I’m asking.

—Then yeah, I like Italian.

He nodded. She nodded. The spoon went round again. Steady. 

—How about Friday? he said.

—Could do Friday.

—Great.

—Sound.

She stopped stirring. The tea was long cold. Hadn’t mattered for about ten minutes.

—Fletch?

—Yeah?

—Pick me up at seven.