Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

JoMazelis

the coffee, drawing it into her mouth greedily. Amanda stole a glance at the flowers and saw with disappointment that these were the dull-coloured woollen ones. Monsieur Arbot did not open his change drawer, did not scoop up a dirty handful of coppers, did not tenderly place the new flowers in the window display. Instead he retied the package and shook his head slowly. The woman was so engrossed in drinking the coffee that she didn’t at first notice what was happening, but when the rejected flowers were pushed back to her side of the counter, she quickly grew alarmed and began to speak rapidly in a language Amanda did not understand.

Perhaps Monsieur Arbot understood, but whether or not he did, he was unmoved, his head a metronome, slowly turning from side to side. The woman jabbered; her voice, which was husky and strained, grew shrill. She put her hands together palm to palm, praying and pleading, her eyes ever wider, her brow a knot of anguish. He tried to ignore the woman, then angrily, desperate to break the spell of her noise, he banged the heel of his fist on the centre of the wooden worktop, and shouted, ‘Non!’ Both the woman and Amanda jumped at the sudden noise, but it had done its work. The woman bit her lip and picked up the loose package. Then just as she turned to go

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