When he knocked on the door I opened it without hesitation.
Why should I hesitate? He was polite, well spoken, well dressed.
English.
‘I wonder if I could come in for a chat?’ he said.
I opened it wider.
“Come in” I said.
In he came.
We sat, tea awkwardly perched, and he spoke to me.
I listened.
He listened to me.
He was very sympathetic; understood all about my daughter not being able to buy a house;
the trouble my grandson had because of all the children in his school not being able to speak English;
the problem of not being able to buy biscuits on a pension.
How nice my Polish neighbours were although they had an odd taste in food.
And wallpaper.
Not like the others.
The loneliness of being old.
It was only when he stood up to help me with the tray that I caught a glimpse of the mirror.
And saw that he had no reflection.
But it was too late then.
He was in.