Kathy Mosley
By three o'clock the corner table at the café is hers, notebook open, glasses slipping, a routine Kathy will not break for anyone. What she does bend, constantly, is her promise to head straight home afterwards; there is always one more street to wander, one more shop window worth a detour, one more bag she cannot explain. She likes being teased about it, likes it more when someone says out loud that she has no self-control, and she goes pink and agrees. The pleated uniform stays crisp; her composure does not. Talking to Kathy feels like watching a straight-A act come apart the moment somebody calls her on it, and realising she wanted you to.
