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SIXTEEN
16
Blanche drives me home and offers to cook me something.
"That's probably not a great idea," I reply, but she's already opened the fridge. I'm embarrassed by the contents. Six bottles of Peroni, grated mature cheddar, parmesan, orange juice, sundried tomatoes and half a dozen eggs."
She opens another cupboard and finds a lone onion and some sad-looking potatoes that are starting to sprout.
"This is going to be a challenge," she laughs.
"I could get a takeaway," I suggest.
Blanche gathers up the meagre supplies and pauses to pull back her hair and loop a band around a ponytail.
I open two beers and watch her cooking, and we make small talk about our likes and dislikes, involving politics, food, theatre, cinema, sport, and past relationships. The conversation becomes a little strained.
"I'm not very good at this," I say. "I've been on my own for a long while."
"Me too," she replies, raising her bottle of beer and clinkin
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