A statue
Covent Garden in the early evening, as seen through the eyes of a man levitating two feet off the ground.
He hangs here in the air, entirely still, hovering with the help of a hidden stool artfully wired to travel up the back of one silver trouser leg and end in the seat of his silver pants.
He has spent years mastering his breath, banishing all thoughts of pins and needles, dead legs and twitching nostrils.
An art, when your face is spray-painted silver.
He has become a piece of stone, breaking the spell only to tweak the nose of a child posing for a photograph, or to bow and tip his silver hat at the sound of loose change landing in the silver bucket at his feet.
He never turns his head, so can only stare directly in front of him, and can only see what is dead ahead.
One segment of one cobbled street off the square, and the blur of colours that passers-by become when they disappear into his peripheral vision, before they’re lost to the crowds of London.
He sees this: one half of each shopfront opposite.
Half of a chocolate shop, half of a clothing retailer.
Between the two, a single column of thick white brick with a CCTV camera affixed to the top.
Bins, bollards, flowerbox planters and, among it all, people rushing from right to left and left to right, into the station and out of it, out of the square and in, from one eye into the other, then into obscurity.
There’s a break in the crowd, and into it emerges a young woman: early twenties, downcast, a jumper for a dress and chunky black boots.
She walks purposefully, muttering to herself, tucking her bleached hair over and again behind one ear.
She has almost passed out of his field of vision when something else appears.
A black dog, gambolling towards the young woman on short, fuzzy legs.
And after it, a young man, his much longer legs making purposeful strides, the dog’s lead in one hand, the other hand outstretched.
He’s tall, wearing a black T-shirt. When he calls her name, he calls it loudly and clearly.
She hasn’t stopped walking yet, and she doesn’t get the time to turn.
He’s taking her arm. He’s turning her around.
She is surprised, but not for long. As he looks into her eyes, as his hand finds its place on her waist and causes her jumper to rise over her laddered tights, her own fingers rise to his neck.
She holds his face, gold rings against dark stubble. She stands on her tiptoes to meet him.
They’re frozen in the moment, kissing as if it was always supposed to happen like this.