Lizzy checks her phone.
Literally twenty minutes late and no message.
She looks across the street.
“If she comes out of a cafe…” Matty’s notorious for popping into coffee shops before arriving when she’s already holding people up.
Lizzy squints and steps forward, to the edge of the pavement, the traffic on Southampton Row thickening at the red light.
It can’t be.
Chris Stock. Serving coffee.
It can’t be. He looks identical.
How long since they were at uni? twelve years?
She weaves through the stationary cars and up to the window.
Same face. Same movements.
It can’t be. Eighteen year olds all look the same.
She’s getting old.
But still she scrutinises.
And he looks up.