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I like to imagine my girlfriend alone, ordering ravioli in the café where they know her name but mispronounce it. The sadness of cutlery. But if I know her, and I think I do, she’d prefer it if I think of her in the Korean restaurant that her gay colleagues frequent – tossing flank steak on the hot plate, to applause, being paid compliments for eating and still looking, the way she does.

I think this a little heavy handed so I turn one of the gay men at the table straight, just one. He is eating a raw egg salad, badly, and glistening at the lips. Then I turn a couple more, to see how I handle it. Soon they’re all eating the raw egg salad.

I’m just-the-right-amount annoyed until my girlfriend says, flamboyantly, that she likes her steak bleu, and they all enjoy that. Did I mention the Korean restaurant has a parlour? It does.