Rainbows seen from the air are complete circles (extract)

Sarah Butler

He noticed her coat first - bright cinnabar red with a slight sheen and a button hanging on by a single thread; then her hair - greasy stripes of black, turquoise and lilac; and then her legs - stretching out from beneath the coat: bare, pallid, a little too thin.

'Bacon'll be three minutes.' The owner of the café - with its white tiled floor, regimented rows of fixed tables, red plastic chairs, smell of oil - stood where he always did, at the till, a chewed up plastic pen between his teeth, a bright white apron tied around his stomach. 'I'll bring it over.'

'I'll wait.' The customer, who had noticed a red coat before bare legs, stepped aside and gestured with one hand - yellowed fingernails like old parchment - for the girl to go in front. She eased past and scanned the menu board's stumpy black letters. She was suddenly hungry.

'Full English,' she said, tucking her hair behind her ears; pretending not to notice that the customer who'd let her past was staring at her. You draw attention to yourself. Wear some normal fucking clothes. Another man's voice grated against her memory.

'Scrambled or fried?'

'Scrambled. And tea.'

'Four pounds, miss.'

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