Strangers

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‘You all right?’

He just looked at her, struggled to focus, took his time to reply. ‘Sorry. Tired.’

‘It’s getting awful late. What are you doing out here at this hour?’

‘Not sure. Lost, I think.’

‘I’ll say. Where you heading?’

‘Can’t remember,’ he said, embarrassed, and he laughed like a child.

They blocked each other’s way along the narrow pavement. The silence was awkward. Joan’s dog Oscar tugged at his lead, keen to get home and out of the rain. She tugged back. He’d have to wait.

‘I’m cold,’ the man said, wrapping his arms around himself.

‘I’m hardly surprised. Just look at you. You’re not really dressed for it, are you?’ Joan continued to stare at him. What was he… mid-thirties, perhaps? He looked about half her age. His nipples showed through his wet T-shirt and she couldn’t help but stare. He was shivering, but that was only to be expected. She was cold herself, and she’d a vest, a blouse and a cardigan under her anorak. In the dull glow from the streetlamp between them, she thought he looked beautiful. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ she asked.

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