As I was leaving, she mouthed some words at me across the café. At long last. Slick dark hair swept back, snub nose, cheekbones high and broad. She juggled a tray towering with cups and saucers clear above the eddy of rush-hour, almost submerged by customers. I couldn’t make out her words over the burbling voices and rushing espresso machine. She tried again, with more ee-nun-cee-aye-shun, then gave up with a rueful smile. I nodded, grinned, offering encouragement, but found myself caught in the flow of tourists bubbling like ducklings behind a man with a clipboard, dipping out of formation at the slightest distraction. I was borne away, helpless in the current, as she made one fi-nul a-temp-tuh at cuh-mew-ni-kay-shun then slid away, slipping into the crowd.
INDENTI was beached, cast into the hard grey day. The low winter sun threw my pale shadow across the road, under the angry traffic jammed at the lights. The air was sharp and inquisitive, testing zippers and collars for gaps. I dragged myself up the street, leaving the warm café and all its bright promises behind, until I stopped at a crossing. Toes just over the edge of the pavement, posed on the kerb, a diver before the plunge.
And standing here now, I realise that what you were trying to tell me then is that you would hold my hand while we sleep, so that we’d never drift apart, for all ee-tur-ni-tee.