Dinner.

He walks in, looks around, I wonder if he’ll even recognise me after all these years. The guy at the front desk speaks, I can’t hear, the restaurant is loud.

That’s why I chose it.

The guy at the front desk turns and points at me, I don’t smile, just nod. He doesn’t thank the staff, just stomps over, he always stomps, and holds his hand on the back of the chair opposite for a moment, then pulls it out.

He’s left his jacket on.

I watch him. He just stares around, clenching.

The curiosity must be burning through him.

I relish it.

“So -” He begins and fixes his face into what he thinks is friendly, finally looking at me, not meeting my eyes.

“So” I cut across him, “Wondering why, after all these years?”

He nods.

“Nervous?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Any ideas?” I ask.

He shrugs. He’s starting to sweat. I have to fight the urge to smile. I win. I just need to deny it, savour it, so I pull out a cigarette and light it.

“What’s this -” He starts.

I cut across him again.

“I need that favour. I know you’ve not forgotten what I did for you, or have you?”

His eyes go wide, for a split second, “No. Of course not, I just thought -”

“- Good.” I go on, “I knew you’d remember. Hard thing to forget, having someone killed.”