Tuesday and pissing down on Euston Square. I brush elbows with you under the shelter.

“Pound fifty, was it?” I say.

“Seventy-five.”

“Blimey,” I say, and you agree.

I hail 73 to Stoke Newington, glancing back as I hop on. We both smile, but you don’t follow.

Wednesday and we brush elbows again. More smiling, a few more words.

Thursday and I look for you earlier. Our eyes meet. We both freeze. Toothbrush in hand, shame on your face, you spit toothpaste into the bushes. I hesitate, then walk to your tent, and let fly past 73 to Stoke Newington.