“Worried she’ll get clingy?” “Penelope . . .” He lets his arms fall. “You can keep making fun of me . . .” “I shall.” “And insulting me.” “That’s the plan.” He turns his head towards me. If I had to describe his face and general mood right now, I’d go with unhappy-go-unlucky. “But please,” he says, “don’t make jokes like that.” “Like what?” “Don’t call her my girlfriend.” “Is ‘fiancée’ better?” “Don’t, Penelope. It’s not funny.” “It’s funny to me, I have a lot of jokes lined up.”
