I want to stay in the tent. I’ve seen her in the Post Office, but this is different. There’s no reason for me to stay in the tent. ‘Cup of tea?’ she says and her smile. Like she can see right through me, like she’s hiding a whole different world behind the beautiful mask of her face. She’ll be able to tell me anything at all. The universe is in there, the secrets, the meaning of everything. I’m see-through now, can feel myself evaporating in front of her like the steam from the big metal teapot. She could reach out and run her fingers through me and I’d be real again, solid and mangled like melted butter gone hard. That’s how it feels, that’s how it is. And I say ‘No sugar’ even though I like it sweet and her dress is blue and her breasts – her breasts – I shouldn’t think about her breasts. Later in the bus shelter she’ll push my hands away when I try – but this will be much later, and I shouldn’t try. Her mother will say I’m no good, there’s nothing much about me, too young and only after one thing. And I’ll think of all the other times with Elsie and Bridget and Rosie Clifton. But I won’t miss them, not really, not afterwards when she’s gone home and I’m already licking the pencil and rummaging in my pockets for a scrap of paper to write her a letter and say I’m sorry, forgive me, don’t hate me May, please don’t.

Why doesn’t anyone ever bring me anything to drink?