The Information Junkie by Roderick Leyland

turning vegetarian. Turning...? Turning...? TURN ING...? TURNING...? TURNING...? ing...? ing...? ing...? ing...? ing...? ing...? Why...? why...? why...?
    She didn't want to kill animals. Was she macrobiotic? Not yet, but she was considering it. You could have predicted that, couldn't you? I said:
    'What are we having—a bowl of lentils, a plate of beans and a slice of bread with organic spread?'
    'Wait and see, Charlie.'
    So, we just sat there for a while and nattered. She tossed me a clue from the crossword which we nearly finished but she said she didn't have a dictionary with her. I said that using a dictionary or thesaurus was cheating. She said I was too hard on myself.
    I said: 'You're assuming I stick to the rules.'
    She smiled at that and showed me thirty-two white ones again. They were like...discoloured jewels, faded ivory. They said, I'm young but not that young. They said, Belinda's got better teeth. (And Belinda does have better teeth.) They said, We've sucked a lot of cigarette smoke through us, we've given ourselves a patina of nicotine and rinsed ourselves in Rioja. Her lips said: We've eaten, we've kissed men; we've kissed Ffion's mum, kissed her dad, we've kissed her sister, kissed her brother. Ffion's tongue has licked us. We've become chapped in the cold, blistered in the sun. We've had lipstick painted on to us but not anymore: Ffion prefers us natural. Can you see them, buddies? Can you see her lips? Can you see an oh so delicate saffron tinge above the top one? Can you see that...can you see those oh so delicate, oh so faint eyebrows?
    The smells from the kitchen are getting stronger. A loaf of bread appears on the table. Ffion sets cutlery. And it's a bowl of bean broth each. And to drink is just tap water. Tap water? Tap water?? TAP WATER??? Faucet juice? Faucet drips?? FAUCET DROPLETS??? What's happened to her designer water with twists of raspberry?
    I said, 'Have you bought the place?'
    'Yes.'
    'Is this where you originally came to chill out?'
    'Yes.'
    'So, you knew the owner?'
    'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Very well.'
    Ah, buddies, there's a past.
    The bean stuff was very hot. Burnt my tongue. Bread was nice.       After eating:
    'So, Charlie, what'll it be? Back to your programming?'
    I said I would go back to my work but was thinking of giving up the extracurricular stuff— Cybernurse, and all that. I said it was silly, pointless. I said:
    'What is the point in doing that?' She said:
    'Charlie, the best hobbies are pointless.'
    And for a moment I was back in my grandmother's garden smelling lupins, nasturtiums and wild roses. There was a feeling of foreverness. She asked where I was. In the garden. Which one, she said, Garden of Eden? I laughed and said yes but told her I wasn't tempted because it was before Adam and Eve. That sounds clever, she said.
    And as we talked I thought: I can't tell all this to the doc, I can't tell my dentist. I can't tell all this to Martin or Belinda. I can't tell anybody. What am I going to do? How am I going to resolve the situation? But:
    When we'd finished our bean bonanza she offered me the fruit bowl; I took a banana, she an apple, which she ate noisily: that dinky dentition again. She sat back in a comfy chair, flicked back her hair and spread amber all around. She was wearing knitted purple tights and cork-soled flip-flops. She asked, to confirm, whether I was giving up my sideline in order to concentrate on my work. I advised I'd had enough of programming and of work. Why didn't I branch out on my own? I had thought about it.
    Through one of her windows you could glimpse the sea which today was calm, the sun shining on it; but I could foresee bleak winters here.
    'Can I visit you again?'
    'Do you think that's wise?'
    'Why not?'
    She said: 'Because it's about time you faced reality.'
    I said, 'I don't want to. The fiction's easier. I prefer the appearance. Unlike the Lady of Shalott I'm quite happy to look in the mirror. I'm not sick—not even half sick—of