"So if you're the expert, tell me, how do I start living a little, Ruth? What should I do? Go clubbing? Travelling? Getting drunk?"
Her eyes flicked to the glass.
"That I think you can do well enough!"
He smiled a beguiling smile.
"Then I'm half way there."
"You're nowhere near, Harry."
"No. Perhaps not."
"The only place you are, is in no-man's land. You feel guilt that you survived and so you avoid the chance to enjoy the life you have."
"What's to enjoy Ruth? When is there to enjoy it? How do you shrug off death after death and just carry on?"
"You tell me, you've managed it for twenty years."
He sighed deeply.
"You bury yourself deeper," he admitted slowly.
"So deep you lose yourself perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
"Where have we gone Harry? Where have the two of us who talked of life and travel, who dared to dream of Paris and Rome…where have we gone?"
He wondered if that Harry still existed any more, or if he was lost, buried beneath the bodies.
He looked at her, knowing that the Ruth who would have blushed at the mere recollection of Paris and Rome seemed almost certainly lost to him.
"How do you feel now?" she asked after several moments.
"Tired," he answered, rubbing his eyes.
"How tired?"
"Weary."
"Have you eaten? No, of course you haven't eaten..." she answered, before even giving him a chance for the lie. "So let's go eat."
"Now?"
"Yes now. Unless you're waiting till breakfast?"
The quirk of his eyebrow flustered her slightly.
"Come on," she ploughed on, standing up suddenly, "I'm hungry and so are you."
"Is this learning to live a little, Ruth?" He said dragging himself somewhat reluctantly from the sofa.
"No this is called basic eating Harry ...just in a restaurant instead of dragging a tin of beans out of the cupboard."
He obediently followed her towards the hall and closed the front door behind him.
They sat, somewhat uneasy, somewhat quiet, waiting for their food to arrive. They'd gone to a pub within walking distance with a good restaurant that Harry had eaten in before. An old building with a contemporary yet still cosy interior. He didn't however feel very cosy.
"I'm sorry, I'm not the best of company," he muttered.
"I wasn't expecting you to be the scintillating raconteur, Harry. Not tonight."
"Not sure I've ever been that."
"I expect you've had your moments," she said.
His smile was not too convincing.
"Listen…" she said as her fingers slid towards his hand on the table. He was sure he could feel them even though he could see they weren't quite touching.
"…this is about you getting some food inside you and making sure you don't lose yourself in a bottle of whiskey between four walls and a thousand regrets."
"Only a thousand?" he replied, smiling sadly.
"I'm here Harry, if you want to talk about Graham…whatever…I just want to help."
"Who listened to you, Ruth?"
She looked at him with puzzlement.
"Who helped you when George died? When Nico was taken away?"
"You did."
Now it was his turn to appear puzzled.
"You gave me my job back so that I could bury my head in the sand and work till I was too tired to think or feel. Sound familiar?"
"Then, perhaps I shouldn't have persuaded you to come back?"
"Maybe if you hadn't tried I would have come back anyway."
"Why?"
"We're like magnets Harry?"
He tilted his head questioningly.
"We keep being drawn back together."
"Or repelled apart," he replied quietly.
She looked at him intently.
"Goat's cheese and smoked salmon."
With impeccable timing the waitress had arrived.