At ten to seven on a Tuesday at the end of May, Aled Pryor sat down at the window table of the café across the road from the outdoor pool, with his back to the door.
He did it on purpose. It still took a moment. His body wanted the other chair, the one against the wall, with the door and the counter and the street all in front of it, the chair he had taken in every café for fourteen years without once thinking about it; and he stood beside it with his hand on the back and let the wanting go past, like a car that did not stop, and sat where he had meant to.
Behind him the door opened and shut. Somebody came in for a takeaway. He did not turn round.
Across the road the pool gates were open. The board by the gate said…
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