We were in a coffee shop. He’d gone off to collect his coffee from the counter and on his return to the table he was scowling. He’s just farted, he said, inclining his head towards the man who was sitting behind him, a really loud one, I just heard it. He also told me how the same man had stared at him really aggressively, and how he’d stared back. Perhaps he may not be well, I said, remembering how the man’s wife had, on leaving to go to the toilet, told him what she was going to do in a slow, laboured way. Yes, maybe you are right, he said. Perhaps he has dementia. We both watched him then, when he and his wife rose to leave. He looked far away, unresponsive, lost. Poor love.
