We sit together on the sofa, eating peanuts.

I put a handful into my mouth. She puts a handful into her mouth.

I put a handful into my mouth.

Even though it is switched off, we are still somehow glued to the blank black screen of the television. The light reflects on to it from the open kitchen door. She puts another handful of peanuts into her mouth.

“There must be millions of peanut trees in the world,” I reflect. “How many peanuts do you get from a peanut tree?”

“Loads,” she replies, shovelling another load of peanuts into her mouth.

I put a handful into my mouth. Time passes. I read the wrapper, for light entertainment.

“Allergy advice: contains nuts,” I point out. How amusing! Because, you see, they are nuts!

She puts a handful into her mouth.

“If you look at the ingredients,” I say, “it is only 95% nuts. The rest is oil and salt.” I put a handful into my mouth.

She puts a handful into her mouth.

“You said that the last time we ate peanuts,” she remarks. “Your peanut conversation is getting boring.”

“Oh.”

I put a handful into my mouth.