When the scar-faced man, Pete, came in, looking bizarre decked out all in black with his multi-coloured beanie, Joan Baez had just stopped nah nah nahing. I had my rag in my hand, a rag masquerading as a dish cloth. It was thick and grey and frayed. I would use the rag-cloth as pretence, creating the impression of busy-ness lest Pat walked in and caught me idle and set up some other task. My rag of avoidance.
Pete hadn’t seemed to notice me cleaning in a corner. He went straight to the counter where Pat was stocking the pie warmer. I was surprised to see him again so soon. He seemed less tired than yesterday when he’d alighted the bus, and I presumed his friend Simon who’d arrived late yesterday as we were closing and taken him to the lighthouse, had driven him back to town.
Curious, I i
