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The customer watched her fumble in a small black handbag; noticed a line of makeup around the edge of her jawline, a pulse hammering at her neck. She pulled out a creased five pound note and handed it over. He stepped closer, closed his fingers around the button and gave a sharp tug. She turned, and stepped away, but the button was already safely in the crease of his palm.

'Actually, I'll get a seat,' he said to the owner, turning away from the girl. Someone was in his place. He curled the hand holding the button into a tighter fist and took the table next to his usual one; glared at the old couple who had usurped him. They exchanged glances and continued eating - greasy orange beans, straw coloured hash browns. He slotted himself into place, the blue plastic table just inches above his thighs. The button imprinted its shape into his palm.

He didn't see her approach. He didn't hear the click of patent orange shoes across the tiled floor, or her nervous intakes of breath through narrow nostrils, both studded with silver circles. The first thing he noticed was the clatter of cutlery on the table top - his table top, and a flash of red coat.

'I'm sorry, this is -' He looked up and saw her - eyelids layered with bottle-green make up, lips outlined scarlet, hand outstretched. 'It's taken,' he spluttered.

She stood, tall on her heels, the pulse still visible at her neck, said nothing.

'I don't usually - ' He stared at her palm, white as her legs, like an oyster forced open.

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