‘I’ll get you another tea . . .’ She spoke more, but I didn’t listen.

You were running across the road, narrowly avoiding a speeding car.

‘No, no, it’s OK, Kate . . . I’ve got to go . . . thank you.’

Outside, with my scarf draped loosely around my neck and my coat hung over my bag, I took my position at the bus shelter adjacent to the cafe. Perched, among the Normals, against the cold tilted plastic seat that wasn’t a seat at all.

You were inside the bar then, being shown to a window table by a tall, blonde waitress dressed in black with a white apron longer than my whole body. You probably fancied her too. Would’ve tried to fuck her if it wasn’t for your beloved’s arrival.

You said something that made her laugh. Then cracked up at your own joke. Even after she left, you continued smiling. How hilarious you were.

A double-decker bus pulled in, blocking my view.

Ant-like, the people arranged themselves into single file. Marched aboard. The lucky ones winning a seat. The losers hanging from straps. Bus gallows.

All the shelter-dwellers got on, apart from a young lad cradling a KFC bucket. The aroma of battered battery chickens made me want to gag. I covered my mouth with my scarf to filter the smell, then removed it again immediately to release heat. I didn’t understand why the paracetamol hadn’t kicked in. I was suffocating. KFC Kid inserted headphones into his ears. The tinny tin-tin permeated my head. Severed my nerves. I was desperate to say something, tell him to shut the fuck up. But thankfully I was distracted by the departure of the heaving bus.

I rubbed my eyes to refocus. Clarity returned. It wasn’t just you sat in the window.

It was you and her.

She was pretty, I’ll give you that. I was too distant to decipher the intricacies of her face, but I could see it better than the first time. It worked perfectly. Long, dark hair. Like mine. But she was a grown-up. Elegant. She placed her expensive bag on the floor. You kissed her. Cheek only. As serious lovers do. No back-alley rendezvous. You were treating her with the utmost respect. You appeared nervous. Running your fingers repeatedly through your hair as the waitress took your order.

I couldn’t blame you for picking her. She was the polar of me.

Blame you? No.

Resent you? Hate you? Absolutely.

As I watched you both talking, she removed her coat smoothly, like a model on the catwalk, and appeared far removed from the nut-job you’d painted. Then, all women were crazy to you, weren’t they? Just for being women. Having feelings. Wants. Needs. Expectations of you. Crazy fucking bitches. All of us.