Mary and I ducked into a café in the city centre to dodge the summer deluge that was threatening to soak us like neglected sponges.

The humidity outside was high enough that the air needed wringing out. So the café had opened all its windows — inwards and downwards, like traps. (Not the café itself, obviously. The staff did it. I assume. Unless the café had achieved sentience, in which case I owe it an apology.)

There was an old fella sitting nearby.

He pointed upwards, his arm wavering like a twig that wasn’t sure about the breeze.

“Ooh, mind your head on that window, mate. It’s worrying me. I cracked my head on one like that in ’87 and haven’t been able to eat lettuce since.”

“Ah, thanks. Might knock some sense into me,” I said, angling myself under the pane.

Mary, giving me a side-eye that suggested I’d already lost more sense than I had to spare, pulled my chair further away before I attempted a sitting-down manoeuvre.

“Ah no, I’ve got no chance,” the old bloke said, nodding at the window.
“All my sense buggered off years ago.”

He sipped from his coffee. It was empty. So he switched to water. Then sighed.

“It’s why I wear two left shoes. My right knee lost its sense of direction.”

He sighed again, like a man who had seen too much.

Mary looked at me, hard. Then tilted her head silently toward an empty table across the room — free from windows, knees, and conversational peril.

But then, the rain came. It poured down, and shot in through the window. I jumped up and cracked my head.

The old guy? Leaned over and held out his glass to catch the rain water.

“I’ve heard it’s good for your sense. I drink it when I can catch it.”