SHE KNEW HIM
She knew him by reputation, and by his cricket not-whites, the silly celery, his wondering wall-to-wall gaze as if he’d never done takeaway before, and at the same time his distraction, planning perhaps to save a planet or put a monster’s nose out of joint. She knew him by the weird effluvia he set down before he dug from his pockets several crumpled pound notes, paid and strode out into the rain to squat before the ragged child, hand her his humble dinner and turn away from the embarrassing thanks. Then she was glad she’d packed him two extra brownies.
