I DON’T KNOW ABOUT ANGELS

‘I wont be there on Friday,’ I said, ‘so I’ll miss your last day. Do you mind?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m going to come back anyway. I borrowed a book from the Mouth so I’ll have to.’
We were talking by a lamppost, the pedestrian divide outside the chemist in Montpelier. I’d gone down Picton Street to come round on Bath Buildings up onto Cheltenham Road then back home via the newsagents on Jamaica Street and an Evening Post.
She called my name.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Hi.’
She asked about my day and I said it was worth it, learned a few things might be useful, you never know.
‘That’s true,’ she said.
Her phone rang.
‘I’d better answer that.’
I moved back, half a yard, give her some room as she spoke, thought it was her boyfriend she was saying, ‘I’m on my way, I missed the train so I’m walking, and I’m cold...it is with sandals on...’ I looked at the sandals, smiled at her...‘I wont be long...yes, okay...yes, see you soon...’
She used to be a crusty drinking scrumpy on Turbo Island. She says she doesn’t remember much about that time. Got herself out the life though, left the man she was with, the one still believes he’s followed around by angels.
‘There must be something in it,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘There’s always something,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know about angels.’