She doesn’t know why she’s spotted him; the human currents lapping the sides of Golden Square tend to anonymise. But his face stands out, somehow.
Not his face.
He glanced at the man next to him on the bench.
Astrid knows that glance. She leans closer to the glass.
Shuffles on her stool.
The man next to him (she labels him ‘Blondie’ and leaves the glancer nameless, following some law of her own), he shuffles on the bench.
But a cup shatters behind her, and she glances round.
Apologies are exchanged between two girls and a member of staff is already on hand with a dustpan and brush.
She looks back again.
Blondie and the man are already speaking.
She missed the moment, and she’s pissed off.
It’s so rare to see it, watching like a god behind glass.