Patrick goes straight to the kiosk and buys a black coffee, pouring something into it from a hip flask that he takes from his briefcase. He doesn't offer me anything and something in his expression makes me reluctant either to question what he's doing or ask if I can join him, even when he lights up a cigarette in direct contravention of the No Smoking signs on the wall. My head's jangling, part of me hoping he'll touch me, drag me into whatever corner he wants and push me face first against the wall and force himself inside me. My mind flits to the text. I take my phone out of my bag and read it again.
I know what ur doing u fucking slag.
It can't mean this. No one knows about this. We've been so careful. I must be making a mistake that it's been sent to me ...
...I push my phone deep into my jacket pocket, reluctant to discuss the text. If I don't mention it, maybe it'll go away.