It’s financially rebarbative too,” I said. “Aye,” he nodded, “it does cost a fortune, right enough.”
There was a pause. “Which way are you going, Eleanor?” he asked.
I considered the best response to this question. I was heading home for an exciting rendezvous.
This highly unusual occasion—an appointment with a visitor to my home—
meant that I needed to curtail this tedious, unplanned interaction posthaste.
I therefore ought to pick any route but the one Raymond would be taking.
But which one? We were about to pass the chiropody clinic and inspiration struck.
“I have an appointment over there,” I said, pointing to the chiropodist’s opposite.
He looked at me. “Bunions,” I improvised. I saw him looking at my shoes.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Eleanor,” he said. “My mother’s the same; she’s got terrible trouble with her feet.”
We waited at the pedestrian crossing, and he was silent at last.
I watched an old man stagger down the opposite side of the road.
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