Café conversation

Her voice, confident of its content, carried easily to us. Her accent was of the south – probably London. She sat firmly planted at the scruffy café table. The breeze from the sea lightly ruffled her flowered top and cropped grey hair.

Two men sat with her, polite but not involved, it seemed to me. I tuned in, ignoring my own companion:

“It was a solid mass on the X-ray, they said. Nothing else for it….So full of titanium they have to check me at the airport every time. I always say, that’s the only time I ever get groped…”

At our table, my companion murmured something about the coffee.

” …been very unlucky. Lost my husband 15 years ago. Quick it was…three days later… Only 51.”

I murmured back: The coffee’s fine, thanks.

“And then I lost my grandson…accidental, but at that age… four …no-one to blame, they said…I told her, I said, you can’t go around feeling sorry for yourself all the time like this.”

At their table, the two men avoided looking at one another. At ours, my companion put down four euros as we left.