There was a massive Fleetwood Mac poster on the wall behind him,
the top right corner of which had come unstuck and flopped down like a puppy’s ear.
“Listen, Nora, I like you.” Neil was harmless. A fifty-something guitar aficionado who liked cracking bad jokes
and playing passable old Dylan covers live in the store.
“And I know you’ve got mental-health stuff.” “Everyone’s got mental-health stuff.”
“You know what I mean.” “I’m feeling much better, generally,” she lied.
“It’s not clinical. The doctor says it’s situational depression. It’s just that I keep on having new... situations.”
“But I haven’t taken a day off sick for it all. Apart from when my mum... Yeah. Apart from that.”
Neil sighed. When he did so he made a whistling sound out of his nose. An ominous B flat.
“Nora, how long have you worked here?” “Twelve years and...” – she knew this too well – “... eleven months and three days. On and off.”
“That’s a long time. I feel like you are made for better things. You’re in your late thirties.”
“I’m thirty-five.” “You’ve got so much going for you. You teach people piano...”
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