You sit on the floor, your back against an ancient tree and your fingers flick through the book that is ontop of your lap. Your fingers occasionally fidget with the dead grass as you read each word carefully. You love reading but John hates it. He doesn't see the point in reading. It's just a few words, he says.

You've been reading all day. Just sat outside with your back against a tree as you read your favourite book with deep interest. The clearing of John's throat snaps you out of your book and you tilt your head up.

"What you reading?" John asks as he sits beside you and peers over your shoulder to look at the book resting in your lap.

He has his hands folded on his lap and he tries to look intrested but miserably fails. His eyes wonder off before you can even answer and his lips are pursed into a straight line.