Then she sees him on the other side of the glass door, taller than she imagined, far from the gangly eight-year-old he was when she last saw him. His hair is long and sits in a curly mass on the top of his head. He’s wearing a pale pink sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, his arms marked with random tattoos. He’s a man now, completely unfamiliar. But as he spots her and squints, she sees it’s him, it’s Kiama.

Her hand goes up but she feels too stunned to smile as he makes his way over.

‘Hi,’ he hovers near the table.

She stands up, ‘Hello Kiama.’ It’s awkward but she feels grateful that the furniture blocks the hug the situation requires.

He scratches at his hair, ‘Wow, this is crazy.’

‘Yes,’ she laughs. Nervous.

‘So weird to see you again.’

They stand like this, locked in the act of looking each other over, before he snaps out of it. ‘I’m getting a coffee.’

‘Okay.’

He backs away then pauses, ‘Sorry, do you want anything?’

Yvonne gestures to her cup before sinking back into the chair, relieved to be able to return to poking her Earl Grey teabag with a wooden stirrer.

Kiama joins the small line at the counter, he dives for his phone, not content to wait and waste the moment. Yvonne knows she’s in the minority of people without such a habit, without the need for continuous entertainment.

As he reaches the front of the line there is talk between him and the pretty barista, definitely more words than it takes to order a coffee. The stud in his nose catches the light and his face breaks into that smile, his dad’s smile, it’s uncanny. The barista beams too and lowers her reddening face as Kiama returns to the table. His knees knock Yvonne’s as he slides into the seat opposite. He was always a lanky child, all elbows and knees; they used to call him a baby giraffe. It makes her smile.

‘What?’ he asks.

‘Nothing.’ Yvonne looks down at the smudged table and flicks away the crumbs of previous customers.

Steam floats from his takeaway cup. Why takeaway? Is what he has to say to her so short? He catches her eyeing it, ‘I get fed up of spelling out my name.’

She’s confused, but then notices the scrawl of Kev on the side. It’s sad that he’s not proud of his name. But it was simple for her, growing up with a name like Yvonne, something everyone could spell and pronounce without a second thought.

‘Kev?’ Yvonne says.

‘It’s an easier name.’

‘But Kiama’s a beautiful name. You know it means—’