A shape passed by the window, really close. Before she knew what she was doing, she had slipped the knife into her pocket.
The door banged shut behind him. His overcoat was hanging off his shoulders, rain was dripping out of his fringe onto his forehead. He lurched over to the table.
She dragged the ashtray towards her and stubbed out her cigarette.
He collapsed into the chair opposite.
‘Did you have to get drunk?’ she said.
He ran his fingers through his hair and wiped his hand on his chest. ‘Aye, that’s you,’ he said. ‘Always ready with a remark.’
‘You got my letter, then?’ she said.He took one of her cigarettes. He had trouble lighting it, his hands were shaking so much, his head swaying. He blew smoke across the table, her scone was covered in it. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t hungry. ‘Aye, I got your letter,’ he said.
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