Pawns

   “I know what you are.”

   I love that because it saves me breaking things and the tree climbing that has become so fashionable lately but inconvenient here in treeless Norfolk. There’s sometimes a hopeful little smile too as though I was offering an invitation to some Regency valetudinarian’s paradise of health, well-being and longevity. Not so, of course; and these silly girls should stick to the Victorian pot-boilers that at least acknowledged the existence of evil. There are many names for what we are and many variations of how we survive, but what we truly, madly, always are is thirsty.

On the train

  “You dropped your phone behind that suitcase.”

  “Thanks. Why not join me? These seats aren’t reserved.

   “Come and meet my family after your business tomorrow. I’ve never met anyone so knowledgeable about the Nineteenth Century, and you so young. Come for dinner; my wife is interested in history.” As interested as a husband so enchanted he never noticed his reflection sitting next to no-one.

  “No thanks. I have an evening meeting.” I patted my throat. “Drink problems.” I liked him.

   His home address was in his phone, but not password protection. If I changed my mind these invitations are irrevocable.