He’s rehearsed the lines; it’s almost time.

The train doors slide, he rises, swallows a cocktail of bile and blood.

“Fighting fit,” says his mouth, to keep hers smiling. His sunshine girl.

He flies her bag over his shoulder like it’s candyfloss. “Your mother’s made dumplings, special.”

Same as always.

Linda Grierson-Irish lives in Manchester UK and writes flash fiction and the occasional short story.