“Nice weather for ducks.”
My husband’s conversational attempt lands clunkily atop the white noise of cutlery scraping plates, and ice cubes clinking in water glasses. Family dinners, always turgid, made more awkward by the long looks and small smiles of my sister; always watching.
I stole him from her; that’s the unvarnished truth.
She rebounded by travelling, returning more confident, fascinating. She smiles again now, a covert look beneath her lashes. He looks resolutely at his plate but I know him too well.
“More wine?” She leans across him. He blushes.
I will bow out graciously. Their destiny is back on track.