“This is fucking ridiculous.”

“Yes,” he said. She wasn’t referring specifically to this morning but to many before. And nights. And days. And weekends. Things had been going badly for a long time.

“I mean-why?”

“1 don’t know. It’s ridiculous, like you said.”

“Do you still love me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then why?” she pleaded again.

“Ridiculous,” he repeated. They were still dancing, more intricately now.

“It needn’t be.”

Deaken regarded their arguments like some juvenile game of Scrabble, a limited number of words arranged before them to create into a pattern of familiar sentences or phrases.

“We can’t afford a baby,” he said-the most familiar phrase of all.

Karen crumbled a brioche between her fingers, until it became a scattered pile of crumbs and dough. “We can’t even afford this fucking bun!” she said.

“You know I’m right.”

“Shall I tell you something…?” She raised her hand way above her head, so that bread debris rained down between them. “I’m fed up to here… I’m utterly and absolutely pissed off… with this bloody affectation.”

“You don’t have to swear.”

“I’ll swear as much as I fucking well like!”

She seized her coffee cup with both hands, making a barrier between them. He thought she was beautiful, even though she had only scraped a comb through the blonde hair and coloured her lips. Anger flushed her face; she looked young and innocent and flustered. He wanted to reach out and touch her. He didn’t.

“It’s not an affectation,” he insisted. He didn’t want to argue any more with her.

“Then tell me what it is!”