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Making tea is a ritual that stops the world from falling in on you. Everything pauses while you do familiar things with taps and kettles: it allows you to get your breath back and become calm.
‘Thank goodness for you, Lucy. Holly never carries chocolate, and George has always scoffed his before we’re out of Portland Row. But I can always rely on you.’
Strange how close the darkness is, even when things seem brightest. Even in the glare of a summer noon, when the pavement bakes and the iron fences are hot to the touch, the shadows are still with us. They congregate in doorways and porches, and under bridges, and beneath the brims of gentlemen’s hats so you cannot see their eyes. There is darkness in our mouths and ears; in our bags and wallets; within the swing of men’s jackets and beneath the flare of women’s skirts. We carry it around with us, the dark, and its influence stains us deep.
Besides, none of us really knew what to do with relaxation; it was so much more natural to just go out and stab something.
He motioned with his head; without looking at me, his fingers stole out and gripped mine.
His eyes fixed mine. I did my best to look super-casual, but I could feel a bit of blushing going on. Then I realized that everyone was watching us.
