Hovering

I put on a deep and dramatic voice. Very much unlike how the real Mark would speak.

"I am a starving man," I said. "If a pity feed is all I can get, then I'll have to take it."

She laughed.

"Grow up!" she said. "Nobody ever died of this!"

"You don't know that," I whined. "I never know when food is going to be on offer. It might be tonight! What if it is tonight and I'm not there waiting? What if I fall asleep? What then? I might never ever eat again…"

"Oh dear," she said. "If you keep up the desperate begging I will never feed you again."

"If only I could have some certainty," I continued. "If only I knew that my bowl was going to be filled at precisely 9pm each Tuesday, Friday and alternate Sundays. Then I could be sure. Then I wouldn't need to hover (except from 8.55pm each Tuesday, Friday and alternate Sunday.) Sure I would be hungry in between feeds, but I could manage it, imagining the bliss that will be mine five times a fortnight!"

We both laughed some more.

"I could try it," she said. "Routine feeds, Tuesday night and Friday night."

"And that has to be all that's on offer," I said. "You have to make it clear: nothing else, so don't bother begging."

Sam looked thoughtful.

"But what if I want some another night?" she asked. "What then? What if it's Monday and I think, 'Yes. Why not?'"