Lyn spreads her hand on the thick tablecloth. She thinks of pearls. If she picks up a knife, a fork, a glass they will be heavy. Lyn sits down and presses her fingers flat into the white, like a fresh sheet, hears the woman ask, ‘Are you alright?’ Maybe she has drunk a little too much wine already or this is something more serious, a heart attack, an aneurism, an assault by her memory.
The room shifts, the colours go, she blocks out a voice she wants so much to hear. The woman is next to her with a glass of water, ‘Drink this, Lyn isn’t it? Clara.’
Lyn thinks Clara is going to offer to shake hands, but instead she pulls a chair round the end of the table and sits holding out the water. ‘Here. Have a sip.’
‘No thanks.’ Lyn squeezes her brain. This is too much.
‘There’s no rush.’