Dance With Me
“Read to me,” Helen says, perched up on the kitchen counter, her stockinged legs swinging. “Read some more of that book about the girl who faked her own death to frame her husband. I like that one.”
“You would,” I say. “But I can’t. I’m cooking. See?” I hold up the knife I’ve been using to chop the courgette. It’s larger than the one I’d usually use for vegetables, but it’s beautifully curved and I like the way it feels in my hand. “Maybe after tea.”
“You’re soooo booooring,” she moans, slouching like a teenager with terminal ennui. Then she smiles and sits up straight again. “If you don’t want to read, how about putting on some music? We could dance. You like dancing. I could teach you some more steps.”
I look at the knife, its surface too dull to show my reflection. It
