He can’t see me from where he’s standing. I’m in the perfect position, hidden behind the laminated table menu.
His blue striped shirt, which I washed and ironed yesterday, is sticking to his chest, the top three buttons all undone.
A flame theatrically explodes and lights up the kitchen area. He laughs; loud enough for everyone in the café to hear.
“Laughing,” I mouth to myself, as if speaking into a hidden microphone. I really can’t recall the last time I heard him doing that.
I lift my head and watch him twirl round, wiggling his shoulders and performing a couple of synchronised dance steps with a young barista.
I feel my lips move again: “Dancing!”
A new song starts up, asking who’s letting the dogs out? He holds a spoon in front of his lips and barks along to the tune. The young girl at the cash desk is also yapping, like an unleashed groupie. I catch myself grimacing, but manage to suppress the urge to growl.
He’s bouncing up and down now, waving his hands in the air, wagging an imaginary tail.
I slip a fiver under the mug and sneak away, unnoticed.
“How was work?” I ask.
“Boring,” he replies.
Pointing the remote at the TV, he settles deep into his armchair.
I let out a private sigh, switch on the small table light, open my book and stare down at the words.
We won’t speak again until it’s time for our hot chocolate.
Published: Retreat West
