He pulls himself together, grabs the carton of homogenized milk and gulps it down, his head tilted back slightly. And of course he looks for the coffee. He drinks too much of it. That’s why he’s so on edge. He agrees, just as he agrees that he ought to smoke less, that the smoke scrapes his throat.

‘And you don’t eat.’

‘You’re obsessed with eating, you’d like to see me stuffed full.’

All right, I’m going, it’s pointless, he’s sitting there perched on the corner of the table with one leg dangling, does he think I haven’t got the message?

I hear him fiddle with the coffee pot, strike the match. I tiptoe back into the kitchen, stop at the door and place my temple against the lacquered wood of the door-frame, looking at him in silent disapproval as, with one hand in his pocket and the other down at his side, he stands by the gas cooker, monitoring the espresso pot. We watch the crown of blue tongues licking at the steel in the half-light. The pot shakes and starts to splutter and puff, the smell of coffee spreads. He heaves a big sigh and turns off the gas. He opens the cupboard, searches in the table drawer, places cups, spoons and sugar bowl on the marble top, the porcelain and metal wobbling.

‘At least put the light on,’ he says, jumping up, ‘why are you just standing there watching?’

I switch the light on, and at a dignified pace go back to the bedroom. I sit down at the table and place my hand on the open dictionary.

He approaches with cautious, creeping steps, and I see him standing there stiffly, his forearms held out in front of him with the two full cups, scowling at them in turn, making sure the coffee doesn’t spill into the saucers.

Then he goes away again with the empty cups, quickly, flinging things about, the crockery and cutlery jangle. ‘Don’t leave the cups around,’ I yell after him, ‘put them in the sink.’

I go back to the study. He looks at me, dragging on his cigarette, he follows me with his eyes around the room. ‘Stay,’ he says, as I’m about to withdraw (my presence doesn’t bother him, it’s part of him).

Instead, he suddenly flings my door open and stands there in the middle of the room, hair in disarray. ‘I’m disturbing you, aren’t I?’

I turn towards him on my chair. ‘Tell me.’

‘It doesn’t matter, I’ll come back later,’ and he turns his back on me.

‘Tell me.’

He’s so impatient.

‘Why do you always have to keep the lift waiting?’ he cries irritably when we go out and at the last moment I realize I forgot to check the gas, the tap, something.

I run zealously, slowly, because the lift is involved. I slip inside. He snaps the doors shut.

‘Do you love me?’ I ask him softly, as the coin clicks in the metal slit.