The old woman wraps her pearls in her fingers and presses them to her throat.
Lyn checks her phone, checks Burgage Square. It is warm in here, smells of wood, or spice. Over on the worktops there are bags of crisps and nuts, empty bowls. As soon as she gets her head back together she will take the orange juice and go.
‘Actually,’ Lyn points to the carton. ‘Could I?’
‘Of course, let me get you another glass.’
The woman is not as old as she thought, she moves easily. Yoga, dance, something like that.
Lyn feels the juice bits on her tongue. ‘Do you have a strainer? I guess for the recipe, I’m making Pecan and Mulberry….
The woman laughs, ‘Yes, I have a strainer.’
‘He’s called Pete. He’s working in the prison. Not a guard, an electrician. Said he would be here about six. Men eh?’
‘Men. And electricians.’
‘Yeh. It’s lovely.’
‘I am sure he is.’
‘No. It is.’ Lyn sweeps her hand over the linen. ‘To see a table cloth.’
‘This is the first time I have had it out. Here. I’m surprised the colour’s kept, this was my mother’s.’
Lyn closes her eyes, but the tears come.