Roman Road, 1st March

The man in the cap and paper-thin skin is at the next table.

A week ago he sat beside a friend with big earrings and a cheetah fur coat. With steady rhythm she leaned in in to hear him, leaned back, and shouted her next question.

“How’s your health then?”. Lean in. And listen. And nod. And back - “You’re NOT that old! Good for you. Good FOR YOU!” She nudges his arm. Leans in again.

Today a younger wiry woman sits opposite him. Her face sharp with anxiety. She turns with a jolt when the cafe door opens behind her. Friends greet the old man, their eyes pass over her. She fixes him with a look until they move on.

She talks to him with fevered relish about upcoming court cases, family grievances, restraining orders. She talks about her dad’s girlfriend who she saw wearing her mum’s old t-shirt in the kitchen. She shows messages on her phone from a brother she won’t respond to.

“He thought you loved him the best and that he would get all your money, THAT’S why he used to come round and see you the most.”

The man nods. Her eyes burn with focus on his. She leans forward.

“They’re all gonna try and get to you but they don’t know my next move. They don’t know.”

He nods and looks to the window. Her eyes flash from him to the window, to his friends, to his mug, and to him again. He is watching mothers negotiate prams on the pavement. She leans back. She’ll get another tea in.

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