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I’ve spent half my life staring back at this river. And now this brittle bitch is sitting in the way.

Over time I’ve realised that the nicest tables aren’t by the window but one back. That way the tables are of equal value. The better the view the worse the table, it all evens out.

But it doesn’t matter if you sit one row back because you can look between the people. Look through them.

But now her. I know the type she’s cold, and she knows it, so she pretends – with people she thinks she can use – to care by faking empathy. I bet she uses earnest question with wide open eyes. On the outside it looks like she cares. But only if you look for a moment. Any longer and it’s obvious what a trick it is.

The slightest thing upsets her completely. She goes crazy in a controlled way. Barking at everyone. Later she’ll cry. Alone. Her tears adding salt to a bitter Chardonnay. But for now she demeans a waitress for an imagined slight. The guilt of which will haunt her forever.