It is carefully choreographed, out of years of practice. He buys the papers en route, every day: one for him; one for her. He tucks his, rolled tight, a triggerless rifle under his arm. She folds hers carefully, and slips it into her bag, next to the baby wipes. (She has never had a baby – but has always found the world in need of wiping.) The change makes maracas out of his trouser pockets, and he whistles along too – but the tune is always the same, and wants a cadence.
She likes to pretend the table is theirs, each seat engraved with an invisible plaque. It is true that they have never sat anywhere else; but, in truth, the café is always empty when they arrive; and when they leave. There is a different face at the counter today, but she does not notice: she doesn’t do faces. She orders. One pot of breakfast leaf; two cups, warmed; two slices of Victoria sandwich. She leaves the money, stacked neatly, on the counter, before taking her seat.
The sun is bleach-bright today. It strikes her as garish, hostile even. At home, she would draw the curtains shut – and she leans back slightly to catch the shade of the brown drapes in the window. The news smells bad, and she reads it from a distance. She has learnt never to get too close.
He stopped reading the newspaper years ago, but, held high enough, she doesn't notice. He does not drink the tea either, and barely touches the cake. In twenty minutes, they will leave – but a part of him will remain; each day, a part of him remains – in fact, he frequently has the sensation that, in time, there will be little of him left. At which point, he will lay the newspaper gently over his creased, glassy face and crumble among the cake crumbs.
Across the road, a cold almost-corpse is wheeled on to an ambulance.
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