“So this is why you moved to France?”
I nod and hand over one of the glasses brought out from the kitchen.
“Harry wanted to focus on his artwork.” I tell him, taking care to stand in the centre of the old barn. The paintings line up against the walls, my face staring in at me over and over, never looking quite the same.
“Unusual?” I prompt, smiling over the rim of my glass. He grins back sheepishly.
“Yer, I suppose.”
We don’t say anything else. I watch him drink and wonder why I didn’t choose him.