I know it’s been a while, but here’s the third part to Linton’s story. Enjoy!

PART III

There she is, sitting coyly in the corner, hair done up with curls and twists, and she’s rotating the watch on her wrist. She stares across at Linton. Linton stares back. She looks down, then back up at him and he gives her a half smile. The waiter comes with his lunch then, and Linton’s engrossed in his spaghetti and garlic bread. The spaghetti flings about – flicking red sauce onto the black and white checkerboard lino floor – tiny red specks for the waiters to contend with. She’s tearing at her bread roll with delicate fingers; white, undirtied purity that she is, and Linton can’t stand it. He walks up to her.   

‘You’re beautiful.’

She looks at him through her eyebrows and tips her head a bit.

‘I know.’

‘It doesn’t mean anything…’

‘What, beauty?’

‘Yes.’

‘It does if you wear it well. Like I do.’

Linton stands there silent. He has a curious urge to buy her a coffee – just to see if she’d take it, to see what she’d say. He wants to reach inside, touch her composure, and tear it up.  

‘I’ll buy you a coffee?’

She nods, and then says nothing for a while.

‘But you have no money.’

She’s right. Amused, Linton remains unrattled.  

‘I have money.’

‘No, you don’t. You wear the same coat every day.’

And she looks at him through her eyebrows again.     

‘Fine. You buy the coffee.’

She shakes her head and Linton shrugs, walking back to his table to finish his meal. Women. To hell with them.  

High above Linton’s head, the ceiling hums along to the murmur of voices in the echoey hall. He’s standing beneath a painting by Glover. He’s fixed solidly onto it, into it, and won’t be coming back for a while.

‘Excuse me, please.’

Linton jumps back to reality. The man behind him asks if he’d step aside.

‘Sure,’ Linton shrugs, takes a small step to the right and continues looking at the work. The man glances sideways at him, irritated. Linton stands there with his hands deep in his pockets and ignores him. The ceiling, still lofty, looks down on the pair comfortably – accustomed to awkward moments from years spent looking down on such things. Echoey sounds slink about the room: someone’s shoes on the polished floorboards, a covered cough, the swish of clothing, human whispers. Linton takes a deep breath and moves on. The afternoon light tumbles down from the high windows and sends dust motes swirling, obscuring the paintings. The dust feels more real to Linton than all the grand art, so he leaves, wanting to get home before the streets become clogged with people. He gets his coat from the cloakroom and turns on his heel, striding towards the door. And for all his gruffness, Linton is elegant in his haste. Gliding out the door, he becomes almost beautiful. The sun strikes his face, lighting it up and tossing gold across his cheeks, reflecting tiny squares in his glasses. He waits at the bus stop, smoking. And when the bus comes, Linton hails it.