But I couldnt help myself. I followed close behind her and I said, Mary Joplin?
She pulled the buggy back against her, as if protecting it, before she turned: just her head, her gaze inching over her shoulder, wary. Her face, in early middle age, had become indefinite, like wax: waiting for a pinch and a twist to make its shape. It passed through my mind, youd need to have known her well to know her now, youd need to have put in the hours with her, watching her sideways. Her skin seemed swagged, loose, and there was nothing much to read in Marys eyes. I expected, perhaps, a pause, a hyphen, a space, a space where a question might follow Is that you, Kitty? She stooped over her buggy, and settled her laundry with a pat, as if to reassure it. Then she turned back to me, and gave me a bare acknowledgement: a single nod, a full stop.