He rushed past me this evening outside Trinity, this man that I used to know to see about the place. Walking his dog, chatting with neighbours, having a moustache. He'd see me seeing him, salute me and sometimes stop to talk.
A nice man, I always thought. A nice lad, he probably thought.
Tonight he turned his head in the first time seeing me for three odd years. No hello. Not even a nod but a passive aggressive and speedy ignorance.
Fathers can be so funny about their daughters.