What happened is this:

Rona had grabbed two C.D.s that had come her way that week and shoved them violently into a bag, and had then marched from her home to the tram stop. She wouldn't normally have bothered going to the record store with only two C.D.s to sell, but she'd felt that she needed some kind of pretence to going there - other than tearing the record-store guy a new one. She'd fidgeted angrily on the tram, which had soon got stuck behind another tram that was stricken and awaiting repairs: the driver of Rona's tram had curtly informed all the passengers that they probably wouldn't be going anywhere for a while, and that the passengers could sit and wait or get off and walk as they pleased. At that stage Rona had still had quite a distance to go - so she'd decided to wait; then after a while she'd changed her mind, and had almost got up - but then thought that the time that had passed while she'd been sitting and waiting probably meant that staying put was the option likely to deliver her and her rage to the record store A.S.A.P. In this manner, she'd vacillated between staying and going for about twenty minutes, getting steadily angrier and fidgetier and more put-upon -to the rising concern of the other passengers who had stayed on the tram as well, and who threw her increasingly apprehensive glances.

Eventually there was a gentle coo of wonder and relief among the passengers - the broken-down tram in front of them began to move again; and shortly their own tram resumed its journey as well: dinged its bell cheerily and lurched arthritically forward. (By the time this happened Rona probably could have walked to the record store after all.)

When she eventually got off the tram Rona was struck by a sudden thought that, in the muddling murk of her anger, hadn't occurred to her before: what if the record-store guy - her guy, as she sometimes caught herself thinking of him - wasn't there? She was pretty sure that he'd be working today, but what if he wasn't? Her anger at having been stood up had shaken her self-confidence and she was filled with doubt about her own memory and reasoning, upon which she'd relied to figure out when she must go into the shop and confront him.

She needn't have worried: soon she saw the shop's awning; soon she was just across the road from it; soon she was pushing the door open, and there he was. She'd thought carefully about what she was going to say: she had everything worked out, hadn't rehearsed it other than in her head, but she had planned out exactly how it would go: in her mind, she strode into the shop in a righteous fury, perhaps with a venomously sarcastic "remember me?" on her lips, and that would all be followed by a biting dressing-down which would not allow him even a chance to defend himself. It was a perfect plan.

It was a perfect plan, but it was marred somewhat when he looked up as she entered and immediately grinned and opened his eyes wide in relief, and said: "Oh thank god! I've been going crazy here, you must think I'm an arsehole for standing you up last week."

Rona hadn't been expecting this. She'd been expecting contrition, perhaps a touch of grovelling, but not this. All that she could manage in reply was a confused: "Err . . ."

"God, I'm so sorry, I was really looking forward to hanging out with you, but my sister had to suddenly go into hospital. So it was a bit of a family crisis, you see. And I didn't have your number! I couldn't call you!"

"Um . . ." said Rona, trying to think of how to respond. "Is she okay?" she eventually managed.

"Yeah, it was appendicitis. The thing's out of her now." He leaned on the counter and looked at Rona. "You're not too mad at me, are you?"

Rona frowned. She hated to waste a good angry diatribe. But on the other hand, it was a good explanation . . . "No" she said at last. "No, of course you had to look after your sister instead of go to some silly gig. Next time, eh!"