At prom one boy asked me to dance and everybody else in that room spent three hours not looking at me. Thirty years later he mopped up my spilled coffee in a hospital cafe in worn scrubs, counted the last coins in his pocket to buy me another, and did not recognise me at all.
About twenty-five people in that room.
Rye came in with a folded form in his hand and went over to a woman at a table by the window.
She is the facilities supervisor. Her name is Noreen Sackville.
She took that form out of his hand, folded it again without opening it, and put it down under her own elbow.
And she said, to a canteen with twenty-five people in it:
“Give me that. You mop floors, Rye. You don’t hand me paperwork in here. Put it away and get back on your shift.”
The room went quiet.
Twenty-five people. Two porters. Three nurses. A consultant at the next table.
Nobody said one word.
And Rye Colvin said, “Sorry, Noreen,” and went out.
I was one table away with a sandwich in my hand.
And I did not say anything either, which is the entire reason I am able to write any of the rest of this.
