Reportage: In Lantana, 11.50am, yesterday

She had a heart-shaped face, just about holding within its boundaries a full pout with a hint of being always open; always on, always available. Blue, almond eyes. Simple, straight hair, parted on the exact point of centred, with flecks of sun in the brown, even in this winter murk. Skin that glowed honey. Her teeth were gleaming, a beacon that lit up everything else. An index finger, straight and elegant, was waved in his face. It was firm; everything else about her was playful.

And then the thoughts began. She has the best overbite I’ve ever seen. Surely there must be some spite, to provide astringency to the obvious nice I know she is.

It was only as she was leaving, clutching a large pink lever arch file that he recognised why he thought he recognised her. She looked a fraction like A----. That was enough. She? She didn’t look back.