A short story by Grant Davis

“Five dice in my pocket,” thought Andrea, “how did they get there?”
She stared out of the window of the coffee house at the rain rolling one of the dice between her fingers, musing. People passed by, heads bent against the downpour, hurrying in a sort of embarrassed way that people do when their normal gait is more composed and acceptable. A man in a three-piece, a sodden copy of the Times held over his head; a woman clutching a bag of sandwiches in a half-run, half-trot compromise between twin imperatives to stay dry and look cool. Andrea smiled to herself.
“What you smiling at?” Pauline asked.
“Nothing, just people-watching.”
“Thought anymore about your dilemma?” she asked bringing her down to earth suddenly.
Andrea sighed and placed the single dice on the table. She had bought a set of five many years ago in Covent Garden. Hand-carved from red-dyed bone with vivid white spots, she found she had bought them not to play with but as an ornament, and now she couldn’t remember pocketing them . . .

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