In Transit
by Sängerin

'Betrayer or betrayed?' she asks as she as she settles herself on the stool.

I don't bother looking at her face before I reply. The tone of voice and the perfectly tailored trousers are enough. 'I could ask you the same question.'

Of course it's Tessa. Who else, in a predictably dull airport bar, would actually begin to talk to a fellow traveller? Who else would know the questions to ask?

'I thought you were in Majorca.' I say.

'I was. As far as anyone knows, I still am. It's the nice thing about airports - technically, I'm not even here.' There is a pause. 'I thought you were screwing Tom Quinn.'

'I was. It turns out he's still screwing me.'

Tessa buys drinks for both of us. There's an hour or more until my flight to National, and it's not as though I'm anxious to be on it. Tessa isn't much for small talk, which is something I always liked about her.

After a few more drinks Tessa stands up. She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. 'I'm going to the Ladies,' she says. 'Join me?'

Tessa never asks a question to which she doesn't already know the answer.


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