There’s someone who wants to meet you Gussie. He’s bringing you a-

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Who?

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If you interrupt people like that-

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She unzipped her purse and withdrew a compact mirror and lipstick.

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-People won’t take to you. It’s a social grace, knowing when to keep your mouth shut.

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They sat down on the bench. The woman applied her lipstick. When she finished, she angled her body away from her son and opened an app in which different men’s faces appeared. Gussie could see the disappearing men in the lenses of her sunglasses but decided to keep his mouth shut.

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A pigeon bobbed towards them, followed by more. Miss Martin said not to touch pigeons, that they were rats with wings. But Gussie thought they were cute and wondered if they were a family.

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Behind the pigeons, a man was approaching. He held a parcel the size and shape of a football. The hunch of his shoulders and the lilt in his walk gave Gussie both a familiar and unfamiliar feeling.

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You must be Angus.

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Gussie nodded, standing.

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Gussie, said his mother, remaining seated.

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That’s quite the t-shirt you’re wearing. The man said. They say it’s a fashion disaster, red and orange.

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Fire.

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I’m sorry?

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Gussie turned to his mother. This man was clearly an imbecile.

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He means that red and orange are the colours of fire, Gussie’s mother said.

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Richard’s a designer, she added, as though that explained everything.

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So. His mother said, pocketing her phone.

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So. The man said.

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Gussie said so to complete the pattern. Then he looked between them and thought of the word Relations. Miss Martin had told their class about this word during carpet time. Gussie imagined two puzzle pieces fitting together. Maybe this man called Richard and his mother had done relations, but looking between them, their bodies wouldn’t fit. This man called Richard was very tall, and his mother short. Richard was thin, all hard lines, whilst his mother was primarily circles (although he knew better than to tell her this).

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It’s for you, Richard said, offering him the football. Gussie sensed his mother stiffen. Then the thing happened. The thing when little invisible knives cut at his breath. He hated it. Like when the big boys at school found him in the cubicle. He kept his eyes on the ball. The wrapping was full of creases, as though Richard had wrapped and rewrapped it, folding the shiny paper to fit around the ball, spending time over the task, like it mattered for some reason. The thought made Gussie’s tummy feel warm. He looked at the pigeons, now gathered by the lake, where a woman was throwing bread; they flapped and fluttered, excited by their family reunion.

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You like pizza? Richard asked.

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Gussie knew he shouldn’t eat pizza (or cake or cookies) because of his indigestion, but his mother’s eyes were on her phone, so Gussie looked at Richard and smiled a yes.