/ Camberwell Church Street

It’s night. We are walking down Camberwell Church Street. A man in a green camouflage coat stumbles out of the off-license by the bus stop. He staggers round to face us, sees me and sees Georgie, who is walking next to me. Then his gaze flicks down to my cane. He focuses, his eyes seem to soften and — it’s so unexpected — he smiles. Now he will say something.

‘You’re not blind.’

The words are drawn out, almost giggled. Like a child calling out their friend for playing dead.

I have so much to say to him but my jaw has locked shut. I brush past him, Georgie too, a little closer, connecting with his shoulder. I can feel Georgie's anger and love them for it. Behind, I hear Lorenzo telling the man, who has asked him for some change, that he shouldn’t say things like that to people, especially not to his friends.

My jaw doesn’t unlock itself until a few hours later.

‘I was always scared of something like that happening. But it wasn’t so bad. It pissed me off, yes, but the guy was obviously a bit worse for wear.’



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