Maybe it was some lingering uneasiness after the burglary, though he knew the chances of a repeat were minimal, but Nick found he’d got used to having another living, breathing presence around: someone to talk to now and then, even if it was just to say ‘How about a cup of tea?’ For a while he occupied himself looking up Shakespearean insults to use on the boat club. Neither ‘fustilarian malt-worm’ nor ‘flagitious giglet’ exactly ran off the tongue, but short of resorting to Latin nothing else seemed quite impressive enough. But there were only so many webpages on esoteric insults with genuinely original material and soon his laughter sounded forced even to his own ears. Turning on the TV for the sound of another voice only made him feel more alone: talking to himself seemed strange and unnatural after a month where his words weren’t just falling on empty air. It had surprised him how much he’d enjoyed sharing his space: how far that went towards making the world seem more real, less distant.
