Lorenzo’s Girl

I’m sitting at a pavement table outside Lorenzo’s and a bus drives past, a big red bendy one with dusty adverts down its side. It snakes down a busy road, Route 35 to Clapham, its occupants sweltering in a tight, airless cocoon. It’s another humid day in London, and I’m working on another cold pint and a packet of Lucky Strikes.

“Did you know that we share a scar,” she says, “on the forehead, smack in the middle.” She points at her forehead.

I look up at the waitress through a smoky haze of Tunisian Dawn, a big brass hookah-pipe bubbling away at Table 1. The manager sits with old friends, each with sweaty brows, and he laughs keenly at a crappy move in a Backgammon game, two litres of cheap wine and a portion of Tantuni on the side.

“Was it from a door,” she asks, “it looks pretty deep?”

“No, It was from a horse actually, a stallion.”

She giggles.

“But you don’t look like a cowboy,” her smile growing wider at the sides.

“I got it when I worked at the Circus.”

She giggles even louder now, her eyes becoming small slits as she laughs. We chat about life, and she introduces herself: Rachel Kadinsky, half Polish, half Turkish, resident of Washington State, here on a study visa.

“I think you should be a cowboy,” she says.

“And why not a clown, with a big red nose,” I ask, smiling at the thought of it.

“Cowboys are better looking than clowns.”

I settle for another beer, and we smile all night, my confidence booming in a life of uncertainty.

I scribble her name,
over and over again,
in my notebook.