We often talk outside the coffee shop while we wait for it to open. He is usually there before us, with his headphones clamped to his ears. He’s talked of the lack of bakeries before. It clearly rattles him. “Who’s going to do something about the fact that there’s no bakery anymore?” he asked. I suggest that he tries Medina, though I don’t hold out much hope that he will like what they have to offer. He is very specific about what he is after. “White rolls,” he says, “soft white rolls.” I suspect that what they sell will be ultra healthy, crusty and smelling divine. Heigh ho.
I chipped a bit off my tooth last Sunday evening. I went to the dentist and I’m now booked in for a filling. My heart sinks. It is so expensive, but it has to be done. While I was there he mentioned my wisdom tooth again. He’s been talking about it for the whole time I’ve been going to see him. Ten years now. This time he looked grave. (He always stands with his back against the wall, one of his legs raised up behind him, when he delivers the prognosis). What will that cost? I shudder to think. I don’t want to lose it. He says that I won’t notice it. I have to trust, to yield.
She looked the same. She was full of good spirits, as was he. Their garden was a joy. Her skin was the only revealer of unwellness. It smelt acrid and was bone-dry. Her eyes filled with water at every emotion. They were the same azure blue.
