when someone put their arm around you, held you close. Why? Was it some mammalian thing, this need for human contact?
He was warm and solid. I could smell his deodorant, and the detergent he used to wash his clothes—
over both scents there lay a faint patina of cigarettes. A Raymond smell.
I leaned in closer. Eventually, I managed to regain control of my emotions, and the embarrassing tears abated.
I sniffed, and he returned to his own side of the table, rummaged in his jacket pocket and passed me a packet of tissues.
I smiled at him, took one and blew my nose. I was aware that I was making a most unladylike honking sound, but what else could I do?
“Sorry,” I said. He gave me a feeble smile. “I know,” he said. “It’s really hard, isn’t it?”
I took a moment to process everything that he’d told me. “How’s Laura? What about Keith and Gary?”
“They’re in bits, as you’d expect.” “I’m going to attend the funeral,” I said, decisively. “Me too,” he said.
He slurped on his cola. “He was a funny old bloke, wasn’t he?” I smiled, swallowed down the lump in my throat.
“He was nice,” I said. “You could tell that straightaway, even when he was unconscious on the pavement.”
Raymond nodded. He reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
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