He climbs from the bus, guitar slung across his back, baseball-cap back to front, a slow-mo rewind from seven years ago.
His gaze switches to the child by my side.
“Yours?” he says.
“She’s pretty… like you.”
She’s got your eyes.
“You weren’t waiting for me?”
I was, but not any longer.
“My husband,” I say, nodding at the bus that’s pulling in, “better go.”
He leans forward; I extend my hand, turning away.
Selina stumbles as she stares over her shoulder.
“Who was that, Mummy?”
“The guitar man, baby. Daddy’s here now.”