Fri Feb 13 22:17:02 GMT 2009
She is from -- where? -- China, Vietnam, Korea? Somewhere Eastern. Little pang of guilt, middle class abhorrence of racism. She puts her mug of tea down at his table in the tiny crowded coffee shop; is halfway into the seat before she indicates the empty cup across from him.
"There is another one?"
He gestures with a paperback, as welcoming as he can be with a mouth full of egg sandwich: go ahead, be my guest.
She sits and taps on a mobile phone. The steam of their drinks rises between them like a veil. She looks maybe mid-forties, maybe someones wife, someones mother. Perhaps she's telling them now; train delayed, will be back at half seven. Or maybe she's texting her lover, or a terrorist co-conspirator, or her drug dealer.
He eats his sandwich and reads his book. She decants her mug of tea into a takeaway paper cup. When she leaves the returns twice, forgetting some belonging each time. Almost like she cannot tear herself away.