In a coffee shop, the women at the next table talk too soft to hear. Mirroring, they lean in over steaming bowls of latte. Their hands lie inches apart on a wood table battered to glossiness. One twists an empty sugar packet in both hands. Suddenly they both turn their heads away, towards the light of the window. When they drink, they raise their latte bowls like chalices. The blonde in the batik dress draws a finger round the rim of the bowl, then sucks the foamed milk from it. She has golden skin and wears many silver rings.
