Tears Of The Giraffe*

“I had such a lovely time,” I say to Seb. We’re sitting in his car outside my gym at 11.50am this morning.
“Me too, my lovely,” he says, kissing my shoulder. “It’s been so nice just spending time together.”
“I hate this bit,” I say: not wanting to say goodbye, not wanting to get out of the car and watch him drive off.
“Macbeth was good, wasn’t it?” Seb says. “And The Omelette was nice.”
“Yes. Thank you,” I say, gazing into his turquoise eyes, stroking his clean hair. “You smell of shower-gel-for-men,” I say.
“I’m upset about the rugby,” Seb says, looking sad.
“I know darling,”I say. “But they’re a young team. They’ll be back. They’ll get better and better.” Don’t know much about rugby but that’s what the coach just said in an interview so it must be true. “Have a safe drive and a good week. You’re ringing birds tomorrow – that will be fun and…”
“Just had an email from my tutor that we might not be able to because of the weather,” Seb says.
“OK. Well, have a good week anyway,” I say. “I love you darling.”
“I love you too,” he says, kissing me.
We have a snog and then I dismount from the car and walk into the gym.

Am sitting on my bike at the gym. Am just going to do 30 minutes and a few weights and then walk home in the sunshine and make lunch.

Happy Sunday everyone!

 

*2000.  By Alexander McCall Smith.  Detective novel

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