Funny, the way she pouts when she’s doing that. Her mouth a perfect puckered heart. The tip of her tongue poking out of her lips like a cat’s tail disappearing under a blanket. She adjusts the scone again. Setting it dead centre on the black plate. The two currants on top give a gladiatorial stare. Not that she’d see that, Tom thinks, picking grey scum from out under his fingernails. She pushes the scone a millimetre to the right, lays the plastic pack of strawberry jam at a jaunty angle beside the knife, leans back, sticks her tongue full out, and taps her phone.
CLICK
CLICK
One more, she says, adjusting the jam and the knife.
CLICK
CLICK
Tom brushes the nail scum off his lap, takes a sip of his latte, and studies her. He can’t remember her name. Loretta maybe. Or Laura. Not Lorraine. He’d never have swiped right a Lorraine. Not that she’d used her own name of course, but he’d have known, he was sure. Her user name had been cool, floral, aromatic. RoseFlake. He’d liked the play on words. And he’d been lured by the gloss of her chestnut hair thrown back over her shoulder and the not quite straightness of her flashy white teeth.
He rattles his cup in its saucer. She’s picking out words for her post, the chestnut hair falling all over her face and hands. Would she mention him? His blunt edginess? His sanded back corners? The smell of her is winter warm. Cardamom and chocolate. He crosses his legs, puts his elbows down on the table and leans his chin on a balled fist.
WHOOSH
She’s pressed send. Finally. Now she’ll look up at him. Surely? She pushes her hair back over her shoulders and lays the phone face-up on the table. It rests a moment, then blinks, buzzes, and blinks again. She blinks back at it. Her fingers drum beside it. He knows she wants to check. Check the likes. He stretches his arm across the table, touches her narrow wrist with his thumb. Feels the faint drum of her pulse. He eases his hand over hers. She looks up and smiles. Her skin is stretched velvet. He feels her hand relax, her fingers curl towards his.
The phone buzzes and jumps. Her eyes swivel. Her fingers stiffen. He frowns, lets go of her hand, uncrosses his legs, slides his hand over her phone, stands up, and drops the buzzing phone into his pocket. He feels his movements seamless, slick, practiced. Then he’s across the café floor, out onto the street, and hailing a cab. In the back of the cab he leans back on the cold leather seat, takes the phone out of his pocket and searches for the off-button.
PRESS
PRESS
From his other pocket he pulls out a small notepad and pencil. He flicks it open. Adds a short line to the eight already there for that month. Nineteen phones this year, and eight months still to go. He twists around and pushes the phone firmly down the slim gap between the seat and the backrest until he hears it drop to the floor. He examines his fingernails. Each one now neat and clean. He leans back again and turns his face to the window. He smiles at his reflection. This’ll do, he says to the driver. Just drop me anywhere round here.
SANDERLINGS 