it. Of course she did not — eleven seconds, a trolley, four years into a job on that floor.
I told her what she had said and what I had answered and what it had set off, and she went bright red and said, “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” which is exactly what I had not wanted.
And I said: no, listen. You asked the only direct question anybody asked me in that building in five months.
Everybody else — and I mean the staff, and the other volunteers, and both of my friends, and the woman at the surgery — had been asking me how I was getting on.
Nobody said a noun. Nobody said Pete, or ashes, or buried.
Fela said a noun, at twenty-six, with a trolley in her hands, because she had not yet learned to be careful — and a man with a newspaper four feet away heard the
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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