After the first
time, Keith would drop in a few times a week, just before closing, and they
would have a coffee (if the machine was still on), or a tea, with or without a
dollop of brandy, and talk.
One night, they
were alone in the café, the café door was locked, and without thinking Esmé
pulled up her sleeves. Keith saw the
scars on her forearm and looked up and met her gaze, his brown eyes dark with
some indecipherable emotion. Without a
word, he gently lifted her arm and kissed the scars.
If he’d said
anything she would have broken down and wept, and she would never have been
able to forgive him or to be comfortable with him again. But he at once, very calmly, as if nothing
had happened, began to talk about what he called ‘my latest conquest’.
“Such a dag,” he
said. “Wears Target jeyns.”
“So do you!” His
tact filled her with gratitude. She was
ready to play any game to please.
“Yeah, but on mey they
look stunnin’.” He cocked his head on
one side and waited. She just smiled,
glad she could.
“You’re supposed
to agrey! Not jus’ stare at mey as if
I’m demented.”
“Oh,
precisely! You’re just simply an amazing
stunner! Who cares if you’re a dag!”
“Natch.” He stood up from the table, and bowed. “Keith the stunner à votre service."
“Dill.”
And quite
suddenly, they were friends.
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