He says something, contradicts himself, anticipates my reaction, contradicts himself again. Across the table, he's suddenly a one-man show, my own personal vaudeville act.
Laughing, I say, “I think I’ve just become totally irrelevant to this conversation.”
“No no, that was all for you,” he answers, returning to his ceviche.
“Correction: I’ve become the audience to this conversation.”
“And the adjudicator.”
Well, yes. “Well put,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “The advantage of being a single girl. Surely you know that?”
