‘You can’t cut a mango with that,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s all wrong.’

Cynthia shrugged.

From the kitchen she heard the familiar clatter of the cutlery draw being opened and the utensils being shuffled.

Charlie returned with a narrow-bladed paring knife. Coming behind her he let his fingers slide through hers as he reached to take the soft fruit she was clutching on her lap.

Cynthia dug her fingers through the pink-flushed skin before giving it up to him.

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