Sitting in silence

With only the tick of the electric clock above the mantelpiece marking time. Fusel and I are staring at each other across the dining table (dark brown, lustreless and marked with rings from cups and plates). He's not said anything of any significance yet (and I'm waiting for there to be some kind of significant thing that he should say, after all, I left him dead half way up a mountain in Albonia).

That's not to say I expect him to be forthcoming, he was always close-mouthed at the best of times (and there were few of those).

I ask him if he wants a cup of tea, he grunts. So I go and do the crockery clacking in the kitchenette. Turn the gas back on under the kettle, take the foil cap off the milk, look for sugar in the cupboard above the sink.

"Bêbe sends her love," he says. Which is right out character (for both of them).