I’m sure I’m more than capable of identifying my chosen beverage when the time comes.
He stared at me, the pen still poised in his hand. “I have to write your name on the cup,” he repeated,
sounding firm but bored, as people in uniform are often wont to do.
“And I have to maintain a modicum of privacy by not sharing my given name with all and sundry in the middle of a cafeteria,” I said, equally firmly.
Someone further back in the queue tutted, and I heard someone else mutter something that sounded like for fuck’s sake.
It appeared that we had reached something of an impasse. “Fine, all right then,” I said.
“My name is Miss Eleanor Oliphant.” He boggled at me. “I’ll just put, eh, Ellie,” he said, scribbling.
Raymond was silent, but I could feel his large shoulders and misshapen body quivering with laughter.
It was his turn next. “Raoul,” he said, and then spelled it out.
When we’d collected our drinks—with no problem whatsoever—we sat at a table in the window and watched people pass by.
Raymond stirred three sachets of sugar into his Americano, and I resisted the urge to suggest that he make healthier choices.
“So,” he said, after what I recognized was a comfortable silence. “How did it go today?”
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