“Shall we move further in to the shade?” you ask.

Alex does not respond.

“I’m melting,” you say, in a funny voice.

You lean across to whisper in to Alex’s ear. In doing so, you knock over the olives. The oil spills out on to the tartan rug, some of it spatters on Alex’s arm.

“Shit,” you say.

Alex jumps up and says: “Duh.”

You feel a sadness and anger disproportionate to the situation. All happiness is fleeting. There is no human potential. Black olives like full stops in the grass.

The End