She was wearing a full-length soft wool coat and scarf, sensible boots, and a long black cashmere scarf. He paegboy-length brown hair curled inward below her jawline. She had an oval face and almond-shaped brown eyes, very warm. Her smile of recongition was warm too. "Well hi there!" she smiled, " having a late lunch?" I had met Rachel three months earlier in the coffee shop. On that occasion we had been at adjacent tables and struck up a converation about opera, as she was reading Opera Magazine on her Kindle and I couldn't help but tell her I had been to Covent Garden that week to see Il Berbere di Seviglia, with mezzosoprano Joyce di Donato in great form. "I love Rossini" she had said, and the next hour whizzed by. She told me about her baby, her husband's contract job as an engineer in the Gulf, her previous job, her plans to start an MBA in October and juggle this with caring for her new baby - with help from her mum and dad. She too lived in my neghbourhood, just two blocks. “No, but I haven’t had sex in two years. That’s bound to have tightened me up.” “Look,” said the redhead in a compassionate voice. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know. I’m like, a couple feet away from you, after all. My name’s Carla, by the way,” she added, almost as an afterthought. Victoria stuck her hand through the bars. “Thanks. I’m Victoria, but you can call me Tori if you like. “Good to meet you, Tori,” said Carla, shaking her hand more firmly than one would in an ordinary situation, almost as though she were offering comfort. “I don’t know if Danika knows anything, but I guess you could try her and see if she knows where the fuck we are.” Tori nodded. “I’ll do that.” She crawled over to the bars and addressed the tall, thin black girl with a dreadlocked ponytail who sat pressed against the bars, watching Tori and Carla’s conversation. “Hey, d’you-” Her statement was interrupted by a loud, gruff voice speaking in a foreign accent that did not seem to belong to any.
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