Juliet gave him a flyer as he sat over a coffee. He took it so she'd move on, but when he saw the bold black cross on it he crumpled it, dropped it down by his chair. And really, you'd think these people would be used to it, but she wheeled back. He settled in for the barrage, the railing against his close-mindedness, the God is Great, the God is Good, to hear that he is loved anyway.
None of that comes.
She sits down opposite him. He finds out her name when she draws it in the contents of a burst sugar packet.
"Something the matter?"
His reaction is delayed only because he's not used to that Sydney twang yet, or maybe because of the oppressive heat. That's all.
"Nothing. Thank you."
"Look, I'm not gonna pray at you or anything. You on holiday, Nigel?"
"Business."
"Ah, no wonder you look depressed. That's not a day for business, that's a day for the beach."
"So why aren't you at the beach?"
He meant the question to throw her off, to irritate, just to make her leave, but she doesn't. She smiles up at the sky for a second. "I will be, later. This is just how I say thanks first." She slaps the table as she gets up. "Feel better."