‘Where are you? I have a dinner at Mary’s and am headed in that direction’. Unsuspecting words, little does he know that I’m subtly scoping Mary’s front door even as his voice tails off, nonchalantly sipping on my fourth cup of tea. An innocuous tourist, enjoying a semi sunny day at Little Venice, pausing to smile at the long boats slipping underneath into the tunnel, intermittently scrawling a letter to an old friend. I assure the voice that no one has entered or exited the building in the past couple of hours. A weighty copy of Amit Chaudhuri’s Immortals transmogrifies what could have otherwise been a suspicious newspaper wielding Russian spy episode, and my lazy glances over the top of the book at the blond Mohawk threatening a passage towards Mary’s door goes unnoticed. It is a skill. One I have in abundance, to slink into my surroundings, to become one with it. The distinctive aroma of French fries curls towards me from the adjoining table, momentarily distracting me from my vigil. Twenty five minutes to the rendez vous. I ask for the check but their swipe machine isn’t working. A lightning assessment of the situation has me reaching for the phone, casually suggesting an earlier bus stop and cash. Flawless. Mission accomplished.
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