Spitting Out
S
Between the Pines
Jill Owen
he was sitting opposite him. Yellow top with some
sort of bird on it — he couldn’t quite make it out
without his glasses on, and he didn’t want to get
them out. Probably kingfishers. Or hummingbirds.
The train rattled on through Turnpike
Lane, Manor House. He should say something to her, he
announced silently to the disapproving audience inside his
head. But what could he say that would grab her attention,
make her feel that there was some connection worth
exploring?
In a moment of inspiration, he glanced down and pulled
out the bag of cherries from his briefcase. He’d bought
them from the market for the office receptionist, who he’d
upset the day before. Not intentionally, but he’d started off
with some jokey comment abou Ё