Raymond was late, arriving in eight rather than the promised five minutes, but I decided not to make anything of it on this one occasion.
He suggested we go to a café he liked around the corner.
It wasn’t the sort of place I would normally frequent, being rather bohemian and shabby-looking,
with mismatched furniture and a lot of cushions and throws.
What was the likelihood of them being laundered on any sort of regular basis? I wondered. Minimal at best.
I shuddered at the thought of all those microbes; the warmth of the café and the dense fibers of the cushions
would be a perfect breeding ground for dust mites and perhaps even lice.
I sat at a table with ordinary wooden chairs and no soft furnishings.
Raymond seemed to know the waiter, who greeted him by name when he brought the menus.
The staff seemed to be the same sort of person as him: unkempt, scruffy, badly dressed, both the men and the women.
“The falafel’s usually good,” he said, “or the soup—” pointing to the Specials board.
“Cream of cauliflower and cumin,” I said, reading aloud. “Oh no. No, I really don’t think so.”
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