Remember the day I brought a watermelon? I bought it from the little old lady outside your house. When you saw it you said, Ooh hep, watermelon. And we cut it and we ate it. And I was happy because you were happy.

Remember that time we were standing in the kitchen? I was making lemon tea. You were behind me. You held me by the waist, arms wrapped tightly around me. It’s unlucky to let go, you said. And I was happy because you were happy.

You cut yourself a slice of watermelon. While I cut mine into squares and ate it with a fork. It’s no fun eating it with a fork, you said. You have to dig in with your teeth and get melon all over your face, you said. You slurped it noisily and rubbed the rind all over your face. You laughed at my expression and slurped some more. And I was happy, because you were.

You followed me around the kitchen, your arms never leaving my waist. From stove to sink and back again. It made me laugh and try to wriggle free. It’s unlucky, you insisted, mustn’t let go. Your beard tickling my neck. Your breath on my ear. And I was happy, because you were.

I also brought lemons to make sherbet. Do you have salt and sugar? Yes, you said, the only condiments I have. I took them down from the shelf, and then your cousin came calling. With his fiancé. Perhaps that day you were not happy after all.

Perhaps you never were happy.