'So.' 'Yeah.'

'So what'd she say?'

'She said she'd think about it.'

He drank his pint and fiddled with the beer mat, spinning it on its corner. Everyone else's eyes were stuck to the television. It was some manner of football final, he thought.

She didn't touch her beer. Her hands lay on the table, her long fingers splayed wide. Her eyes touched with urgency and disbelief. Impatience.

'Think about it? What the fuck? What does she need to think about?'

'A lot, I guess. It's...'

'It's nothing. It's a no-brainer. Which, you know, is ideal for her.'

'That's a touch harsh.'

He drank again and watch her long fingers as they tapped the edge of the table. He knew she wanted a cigarette.

'I'm going out for a fag... this conversation isn't finished. This is just a pause. I'll be back.'

She fished in her bag. Her dark hair fell in front of her face. She found a pack and muttered an exclamation of victory and relief. She looked up and held him in her eye.

'This isn't over.'

She walked out, the swing of the door mute in the noise of the pub. Someone scored and half the bar erupted. He took a sip and watched through the window as she lit up and paced.

'It never is.'

He finished his beer and took a sip of hers.