9.5

 

Roisin laughed as she touched in arm in thanks. Just from the brief touch, she felt his strength and, through the skin and musculature and blood vessels, the bone beneath. “Not vegan, no. I don’t have the discipline.”

“We all need a bit of discipline.” He winked, but if he thought this line of flirting would appeal to her, he was sadly mistaken.

Her smile faded, and she looked at him with an artistic eye. Behind his hopeful expression she caught a glimpse of emerging feathers. She didn’t know how she knew, but this young man’s spirit was already fractured; the angel inside him ready to jump forms and soar away like the woman this morning. Despite the protestations of her stomach, she pushed the plate away. “On second thought, I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

His hopeful look faded into a scowl. “Suit yourself,” he said. “It’s not like I was going to ask for your number.” His free hand waved up and down, indicating the whole of her. “I’m not into this tranny granny scene anyway.” He picked up the plate and stalked back to the counted, pointedly tipping the pastries into the bin on the way.

Roisin caught her open mouth in her reflection from the rain-streaked window and closed it abruptly. How could someone so friendly turn so suddenly rude when rejected? And what was ‘tranny granny’ supposed to mean? She was neither trans nor granny, and she might be a little older than him, she was doubtful it was by more than three years. She was offended on behalf of all the trans people she knew and, being a member of the queer community herself, she knew many. She picked up her coffee and sipped. Best make it last, because there was no way she was going to buy another one here. Ever.

Now the moment had gone, she began to think of things she could have said as a retort: “You’d have to tie me up to even have a chance” would have gone well with his domination suggestion, and “Have you got a better-looking sister?” though what she really wanted to do was go back in time and date his mother so she never met his dad.

Three minutes later, the pair of young mothers got up and began fussing with the toddles and the baby. She hadn’t heard them speaking before, but now their voices were louder she recognised the deep, Black Country accents, every vowel pronounced through the nasal cavity and consonant with a pit beneath it. The one with the baby in the pushchair moved closer to her and lowered her face to Roisin’s level “Am thou okay, love? Does tha need me to give him a thump?”

Bless the generosity of good people. Roisin smiled back at her. “He’s earning his own karma, but thanks for the offer.” She thought of something else as the woman straightened and reached for the pushchair. “Actually, would you mind if I left with you? It’ll be really awkward in here once you two have left.”

“Nay, lass. Get thysel’ up.” The woman put a hand under Roisin’s elbow and helped her stand as if she’d been an invalid. God, she had a strength that belied her frame.

Roisin smiled her thanks and gathered her sketchbook up, The rain spots had mostly dried, and whatever damp spots remained would soon even out. She didn’t even have to look to know the barista was staring daggers at her. She followed the woman out, the other one and her toddler bringing up the rear. Outside, they both put umbrellas un. Locals always expected rain and came prepared, she’d forgotten that. “Where are you going, love? Can we give you a lift?”

“No, honestly, you’ve done enough. Thank you.”

“If you’re certain?” Toddler-mum looked doubtful. “Here. Take my brolly. My car’s not far and I’ll manage better than thou.”

“Are you sure?” Roisin scrabbled in her bag for a pencil. “If you give me your address I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Away with you.” Both women laughed. “Just pass the favour on one day, eh?”

“You can count on it.” She stood under her new acquisition while the women shared one between them, pushing the chair with its clear plastic canopy and laughing at the toddle, busy splashing in puddles with his bright red wellington boots. She could see their fractured spirits scattering like rainbows through the drops, reminiscent of the series of figures in Duchamp’s 1912 Nu descendant un escalier n° 2, though the child was almost an India-ink figure by comparison. There were too few divergent paths in their short life as yet.

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