She ran her fingers over the tops of the spines of the clothbound hardbacks on the shelf just below eye level, facing the wall with her front and sandwiching a thick chunk of awkward silence between the two of them. Clara, now that she’d cooled down a little and her anger had transitioned to disdain, through pity, and now to boredom, was waiting for her to say something useful. She began to notice the way she’d gently flicked the tops of the books inward, sort of pinching, but not quite, only half way there, an action for which she realised there was no word in the English language, and it would be hers for the taking should she choose to make one up.