You spit the remains of the olive and the stone in to your cupped hand. A length of sputum stretches from your bottom lip. Alex is watching.
“I think I might have chipped a tooth,” you say.
You were raised in North Wales – your parents are Welsh – so you pronounce tooth like tuth. Alex always finds this funny.
“Oh dear,” Alex says, rubbing your thigh, looking at you with an expression that is either patronising or genuinely concerned: your choice.