Attempt at the New Yorker style...

The radio crackled in the distance. She tried to listen but she couldn't make sense of the words. She tried to focus on the strong cup of coffee burning her nose as well as her hands. He had finished, she could tell but her eyes were firmly fixed to the clasped cup, he would have to speak first.

"You can't" the radio was silent.

She looked up as someone whacked it and the jazz beat continued. He was still looking at her.

"I have to" the silence was long and painful like the ones in those movies, where there is no music as they do a close up of a heartbroken woman as the director decides the fate of her lover.

His blue eyes pieced through her, she instantly regretted looking up.

“Why?" She had not prepared for so blunt a question.

"It's what's right" He flung the newspaper across the table

"Nothing about this is right!"

"You have to look beyond the..."

"There is nothing beyond!"

"There is so much more. Please you can’t say ..."

"I gave you my word, though I'd burn the blasted word if I could"

She gathered up the newspaper under her arm.

"Thank you"

She walked away, left him with his head in his head. The door swung closed and she took a deep breath.

"One down"

There were three more stops. The high street was quiet for a Sunday afternoon. A few locals pottered about. She smiled politely at Mrs Jarvis. She chatted to Mr Davies. Mrs Eslington asked after her mother. To each she smiled sweetly and tucked the paper further under her arm.

It was her home this little town, the clothes swap on the corner, the butchers and the bakers, and home at the end of the lane.

 The big building at the end of the street was the Mayors house. White and imposing on the brick built town. It had been covered in bright paint on numerous occasions during the war, but now it seemed people had more important things to do.

She turned down a side street and pulled out her little glass mirror. Her hair still perfectly intact, her eyes only a little blood shot. It would wear off by the time she got there. Placing the glass back in her bag she lent down, lifted up her skirts and started to hoist up her stockings.

It was at this moment that Mrs Jenkins walked around the corner.

"My dear if it isn't little Abigail whatever are you doing?"

"Mrs Jenkins! Oh I merely dropped a penny"

She imitated picking up a penny before subtly straightening her dress.

"How is your mother dear? Sick last time I heard?"

"She is rather better thank you, struggling without Charlie"

"Oh of course my dear. Do send her my love and my promise that I will pop round to see her next week. What’s that you have under your arm?"