Page 73 of While I’m Still Here

“I’ve got tea.”

“You have cold tea, and before you ask how I know this. You literally made it before I got in the shower… so I’ll ask again. Tea?”

I look accusingly at the mug, as though this is somehow its fault, while Colin makes another one. This is what having a boyfriend who has been your best friend for twenty-two years looks like, apparently. There has been remarkably little fanfare surrounding the transition. He still steals the crisps I like, still leaves his shoes in precisely the place I'm most likely to trip over them, and still knows I've forgotten a cup of tea before I've realised it myself. The only significant differences are that he sleeps in my bed now and occasionally looks at me in a way that makes it difficult to remember what I was talking about. “Fine… Yes to the tea.”

He returns with fresh tea, lowers himself onto the floor beside me and takes the notebook from my lap without asking. “What's this?”

“Evidence that I've wasted my life.”

“Dramatic.”

“I have cancer. I'm entitled to be approximately thirty percent more dramatic than my usual self.”

“Is that medically established?”

“Claire said so.”

“Claire absolutely did not say that.”

He reads the heading, then makes his way down through the numbers… then stops. I know exactly what one he’s reached. “Don’t.” I warn.

“I haven't said anything.”

“Your face did.”

Colin taps the page. “Have sex somewhere that isn't a bed.”

“Yes.”

“You've been postponing that?”

“Apparently.”

“Where were you planning?”

“I wasn't planning anywhere. That's the entire point.”

His eyebrows rise. “You've never had sex anywhere except a bed?”

“Why are you looking at me like I've confessed I still have dial-up internet?”

“I'm surprised.”

“Have you?”

Colin immediately returns his attention to the notebook. My mouth drops open. “You have.”

“We're discussing your list.”

“No, we're absolutely discussing this now. Where?”

“Bea.”

“Where, Colin?”

“I'm not giving you a catalogue of every place I've had sex before nine in the morning.”

“Every place?” I repeat, scandalised. “There's a catalogue?”