A pianist
She begins slowly, with a ladder of gentle notes that ascend and then descend again, a Penrose staircase of chords that echo through the atrium.
Here in St Pancras Station, she has all the time in the world, so it is the Chopin she plays.
She lets her bag fall from her shoulder, allows herself to lose herself.
When she finally opens her eyes, she sees a heady mix of travellers.
A woman in a denim skirt with white cowboy boots.
Another in knee-length shorts, with not one but two lacrosse sticks.
A man, tall and tattooed, with a dog, short and scruffy, riding the escalator up the concourse.
When he reaches the top, he almost collides with the woman waiting for him, the one holding the bright and brilliant bouquet of flowers.
The pianist’s heart swells with the music, and with the sight of it, a girlfriend handing her boyfriend flowers.
A gesture of love suspended in amber, the gesture as the gesture is made.
He laughs, and he kisses her. He takes the bouquet, takes her by the waist. He steers her towards their train.