I could see the bones of your shoulders poking up through your white shirt. ‘Lion’ said a swirling tattoo on the soft underside of your forearm. I don’t know who calls you that, but you could be one: skin the colour of a well-brewed cup of tea; floppy posh-boy curls; a huge mouth, big enough to fit a fist into, bigger when laughter is falling out of it.
