‘Course I know, light of life. But most name meanings sound poetic when you look them up. Here,’ he takes his phone back out of his pocket and types something in. ‘See, Yvonne means Archer. I don’t know what that is.’ He furrows his thick eyebrows and reads on, ‘Ah, listen, people with this name are dynamic, visionary and versatile. Any truth in that?’

Then despite the pink clothes, the tattoos, the hair, the nose piercing, Yvonne says, ‘My God, you’re so much like your dad.’

‘Lucky me.’ Kiama puts his phone on the table and sits forward in his chair. His eyes seem a darker brown now than when he was a kid, but he’s still never quite grown into them. ‘Dad asked me if I’d found any photos of you online.’

‘Photos? Why?’

He shrugs, ‘I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to see what you looked like after all these years. You do look quite different though. Especially your hair.’

Her hair? She’d had it cut last week, but has worn it in this bobbed style for as long as she can remember.

‘Funny,’ he says, ‘I can’t remember it being so ginger.’

It breaks the tension and makes her laugh.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Is that rude? I didn’t mean it.’

She rubs the back of her neck. ‘I know I’m a redhead.’

He holds his palms up, ‘I just remember it being lighter that’s all.’

‘It was. But I don’t dye my hair anymore. Except to get rid of all the grey.’

Kiama stares at her hair as he takes the lid off his drink. ‘I like it,’ he says. ‘The red. It suits you more than blonde.’

The way he looks at her, surveying and watching, it’s too intense.

Her tea is stone cold, unappetising. She raises the cup then puts it straight down. ‘Your arms,’ she says, ‘you really are covered, aren’t you?’

He stretches them out across the table, and under a tangle of festival wristbands and beads, they’re a mess of tattoos: feathers and roses, playing cards and Kanagawa waves.

‘My best mate is training, so I’m sort of like his guinea pig. He’s done all these in the last six months. A few of the crappier ones I had done when I was sixteen.’

‘That’s surely not legal?’

‘Course not. But it’s free.’

‘What did your nana say when she saw them?’

‘She cried. I stopped showing them to her after a while. When I find a good portrait artist, I want one of her face right here,’ he slaps the left side of his chest.

‘How is she?’

‘She um,’ he looks away and Yvonne knows what’s coming. ‘She passed away earlier this year.’

‘I’m so sorry, Kiama. I didn’t know.’