‘Don’t fucking do that! I’m not a fucking dyke!’ Faith looked genuinely alarmed, flustered and affronted. ‘I’m sorry,’ she exclaimed. �...I just didn’t know… I just thought … I don’t know what a ‘dyke’ is, but does it mean you don’t want to…’ Sharon tried to spell out her position firmly and unambiguously. ‘I don’t go after women. It’s cock I like. I’m not someone who…’ Faith looked puzzled and uneasy. ‘I don’t know what you want. They have different customs in your country. And anyway, I suppose. When that was done, she disappeared into the back to drop their food in the fryer. Some minutes later she emerged carrying plastic baskets of greasy, wax-paper-nestled goodness. This time the proprietor followed her out. ‘Here… are your heart attack baskets.’ she set their food in front of them. Standing behind her, Warren cleared his throat. Maria glanced back. ‘Relax. They’re friends. Anna and Eric. I’ve introduced them before.’ Maria moved down the bar to get one of the regulars a fresh. More

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