Small Talk

                                     Small Talk

“I write poetry,” I said.  I could see his eyes glaze over.

“I live with my son, on a hill, just outside Dover.”

“Would you like a turkey roll?”  he asked, passing me a plate.

“No, thanks, I don’t eat meat,” I said.  I saw a flash of hate.

“My wife was vegetarian,” he muttered, through his teeth.

“She’s living with a plumber.  They’ve moved to Hampstead Heath.”

“Do you have any children?”  I asked him, while I ate.

He glared at the egg mayonnaise on my plate.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “Three girls we’ve got.  They took their mothers’ side.

They used to visit me a lot, until the parrot died.”

I sipped my gin and tonic, and wondered what to say.

“The C.S.A. has crippled me,” he said, and looked away.

He’d finished all the turkey rolls, and started on the ham.

“She was into all this “New Age” stuff.  Our marriage was a sham.

She used to spend a fortune at the health-food shop each week.”

“They sell some lovely oils,” I said.  A nerve twitched in his cheek.

“What about your work?” I asked him.  “What is it you do?”

“I buy and sell antiques,” he snapped.  “It wouldn’t interest you.

They’ve got a few nice pieces here.  He’s worth a bob or two!”

“I love this house,” I said.  “They’re really lucky with the view.”

He stared out of the window at the valleys and the hills.

He said, “This wretched heartburn!  I forgot to bring my pills.”

He had another glass of wine.  I got another gin.

He said “Don’t eat the chicken!  She’s put too much garlic in!”

He finished up the chicken, while I nibbled on a carrot.

I said, to fill the awkward pause, “What colour was the parrot?”