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Joe, aged 7
It was a small hotel café. The only objects of sympathy were the recessed ceiling lights that gleamed on the tables. Track blinds ran the length of the glazed street wall, splitting the view into strips.
Byrne watched the rain fall, diagonally, crossing the slats. He stirred his cappuccino. Four oldish women occupied a table to his left. The space between them and the other tables
was vacant.
The woman facing Byrne had
curious paint-on eyebrows. He watched her lips move, but heard nothing at all of what she said.
dsrhymes 
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