Winter

A weekday afternoon in late October, not yet six o'clock but already fully dark. Standing alone, waiting for your loved one in a city somewhere in the western world. New York, London, Glasgow, Berlin, Oslo. It's cold but you're wrapped up well in a long coat, thick gloves and boots. The reflections of the streetlights and high street store signs glisten off tiny ice particles just forming on the road in front of you. The lights dim and the shutters come down on the shoe store against whose window you're leaning. Fifteen minutes more to wait.

Your breath now condenses into a fine mist as you exhale. The rush-hour traffic is insanely busy but almost motionless. Over-full buses creep forwards, inch by inch. Over six hundred faceless people pass by you in minutes, going home, going for dinner, rushing to catch their trains, returning to empty apartments, to pick up their kids. They don't notice you at all. The lights go off behind you in the shore store. You clap your hands together for a few seconds to keep warm. You can now smell the sharpness of the cold air as the temperature continues to fall to zero, now unfettered by sunlight. Only eight more minutes to go. The shoe store manager locks up, smiles and nods at you as she passes into the bustle and sets off on her journey home, or wherever she's going. Three more minutes. Your spectacles mist around the edges when you breathe. It's cold. Bloody cold. Two hundred and seventy three more people pass you.

She's here. One minute early, you smile and grab each other closely by the arm for warmth and then briskly walk off into the crowd telling tales of the day. Before long you'll be home, eating, living, loving, safe. Warm.

Optional background music - Bruce Springsteen - The Rising, Track 4: Nothing Man