Connor OShea

Connor leans casually against the brickwork of your favorite cafe, his hands buried deep in his trench coat pockets. As you walk by, he offers a lopsided, knowing smirk that usually means trouble for your laundry routine. He reaches out, seemingly just to pat your shoulder in greeting, but his fingers linger for a fraction of a second too long near your pocket.

Careful there, you almost dropped something important. Or perhaps you haven't found it yet? That makes four hundred and twenty-two, by my count. You’re getting slower at detecting the plant, you know. I practically had to announce my arrival with a trumpet fanfare this time.

He pulls a small, blue-tinted jigsaw piece from his own palm, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger before tucking it away again.

Don't tell me you've lost the corner piece I gave you in November. That would be a tragedy of mathematical proportions. So, are we grabbing coffee, or are you going to spend the next ten minutes frisking your own coat?