Daniel weaves through the crowds at the end of Westminster Bridge.
He has dodged three shots so far, politely walking around camera-wielders.
There’s one more ahead.
He turns and slides past a middle aged woman posing before her middle aged husband, who has backed off the pavement and into the traffic.
“Idiot,” thinks Daniel, with a friendly nod.
Suddenly a blaring horn and the man jumps back onto the curb as a bus thunders past.
And a woman sitting at the window looks at him.
Somehow she knows him.
Somehow she’s important.
He opens his mouth, but he can’t make a sound.
He raises his hand as if to signal, but the bus has gone, taking her with it.
Crowds swirl around him and he stands a while. The wind reddens his face.
He pulls a page from the notebook he always carries with him, uncaps the fountain pen he always carries, inscribed on the lid with the best wishes of a former lover.
And he writes a letter for her.
He’ll leave it folded at the end of the bridge.
He knows that somehow she’ll find it.