He reaches one hand down to the leg I have propped up and gently traces the outline of my insulin pump, secured beneath my hold-up, with his fingertip. He may be obsessed with my blood glucose levels, for reasons I now understand far too clearly, but he gets my illness. There’s no awkwardness, no need for me to apologise for or explain away the funny little contraptions stuck to various sites on my body. As long as he’s confident I can withstand whatever delicious form of cardio he throws at me, he’ll embrace this aspect of me without question.
