It was the way he used to shovel the food down. Crumbs and debris spilling from the side of his mouth. For seventeen years he had entered the café, said “morning”, ordered the Gutbuster and sat down to eat.
He could have been good-looking if he’d just lose some weight.
It was Wednesday, he was leaving when he stopped in the doorway, turned and asked what my name was.
‘Mona’, I said.