A January-like twilight. Snow thick skies though the air is mild. Sat on a bench on the banks of the Thames. The information board tells me this is the site of London's first bridge, and that in the Dark Ages, was 'a place of ill repute and mystery'.
There is a complex of buildings behind me, shiny and new. Symmetrically perfect plastic Christmas trees sparkle with blue lights. We are curves in the hearts of equations. Despite this, there is still an air of eerie serenity.
Watch the traffic on the bridge, the empty platform on the water. In the distance, the London Eye rimmed with blue lights.
Foreign voices approach to my left, fade, come back, fade; a staccato tide.
I risk a look, someone on the phone, pacing back and forth. It still sounds like two voices.
A police siren.
An aircraft.
Only the river is silent, brown waters fading in twilight. Window reflections, street lamp infractions. Dark curves under the bridge; wolves, sleep, cupboards on lost landings, a small window looking out onto the hills of a night-garden...
Someone walks by. A woman dressed in black carrying an orange supermarket bag.
Someone else, coming the other way, gender unknown. A furry Russian hat. S/he looks Russian. A Siberian interloper, still too warm.
Em is quiet, holds her tea with both hands, looks left, then looks forward again as she takes a sip of tea.
