She doesn’t miss him, him and his aeronautical ideas about romance calling nights out their ailerons (subtle adjustments for flight control). She doesn’t miss him always ordering tea; loving sharing the pot; the way his glasses steamed up when he drank; the way his left ear moved just a little when he smiled. She pokes her straight nose out when the waiter comes - orders one of those milky coffees: a long latte, or a flat Puccino or goodness knows what else. Was it a white keto? Her purple scarf is satin glossy against the dull white of her thick, make-up She doesn’t miss him so she won’t wear black, no sirree. "Paint me white," she said to the mirror not missing him at all. In fact she’s wearing one of his old hats, a bit big and with the narrow brim at 45 degrees . She feels like Inspector Gadget. And his trench coat although it’s not wet today. When she put it on she found a shopping list in the pocket “eggs, avocados, milk for Lenny” He always called her Lenny even although her name is Francine She can’t remember why. Was it something to do with Berlin and the cheese they ate in a park? She doesn’t miss him. They weren’t even twenty then smiles like slices of peach cut from the stone. Such youth. She peers into her phone case it’s the one he gave her printed with delphiniums their towering purple scales. She shuts it, furiously, and sips her coffee with its impossible froth sitting on her lips like rabies. She's hoping for a burn. He would have laughed… if he’d bothered to stick around... at the sticky foam. She doesn’t miss him, not at this cafe where they didn’t ever come on Tuesdays.