He couldn’t leave because his wife was talking to me about Fiona McIntosh.
Whenever she paused, he turned to go. But then she remembered something else and turned back again. ‘Fiona McIntosh, I love her.’
They gradually edged toward the door. She turned back, ‘I love Di Morrissey, too’ He turned back, too, leaning against a shelf. Looking at her. Her books, her passion for reading, her face. Her strong Woolworths bag holding apples, eggs and now books as well. Her shoes picked for walking. He was smiling, looking at her. She began to tell me about D’Arcy Niland.
He held the door open, gently holding the door frame, then he closed it again. Looked outside, looked inside. He nodded. He laughed. He shone. He looked at her.
Painting by Gilles Sacksick, 1942