1947

- The duck’s really good, isn’t it love?

- Hmmm. Yes. Quite lovely. Nice tangy sauce.

The rain patters on the floor to ceiling plate glass window in the Art Gallery restaurant. The sun keeks out at us from behind the clouds, shimmering a ruby and golden glow on the stainless tablecloth through the bulb of Merlot in front of me. Tuesday mid afternoon.

- I was given a recipe from Margaret at work a while back about how to make a really good black cherry sauce for Barbary Duck. It’s quick and simple but sounds like it would taste really good.

- Sounds lovely.

I met Margaret once some years back. Charming woman.

- You know what’s nice about duck? That lovely crispness about the skin you can get if you salt it just right. Just to draw out the moisture from under the skin so it’s not fatty. Crisp skin, cooked succulent meat and a beautiful fruity sauce. Good potatoes as well, cooked in the fat. Can’t get better than that.

- No, I suppose not.

- Maybe pigeon if you’re in the mood.

- Maybe. Yes, pigeon.

- But most likely duck, wouldn’t you say?

- Oh yes. I’d quite agree with you there. Duck. Yes.

A pause. Polite clinking of forks and knives and white china plates. Tinging of glasses. Splashes of water in the fountain. Gentle piano music from the player outside. White linen. Flowers. A shimmering glass of red spooling refracted waves of colour before me.

- You seem distracted today, love. Anything the matter?

- No, I’m fine.

- Did you enjoy the exhibition?

- Yes. Very much.

- You seem distracted.

- No, I’m okay.

- Maybe a bit distant.

- No love. I’m fine. Really.

I lied to my wife. I stand on the cusp of retirement. Forgive me.

The reason why I look distracted is that it has only just occurred to me that I’ll never make love to anyone young again.