Care

In the shadow of Piccadilly Circus and bleeding heavily a mere three weeks after my last period, I walk soggily to Charing Cross, past a Japanese couple arguing in the pink, neon light of a closed sushi bar. She looks upset, telling him she doesn't care about his job, that it only benefits her through the money it brings in, and her frustration at not seeing enough of the man she loves is painful to observe. With his back to me, I see only the placatory gesture of his arms, but imagine his face, tired, embarrassed, just wanting to get where they're going without further drama. As I side-step groups of pavement-blocking tourists, I think about the snapshot of two lives I've just witnessed - an unintentional voyeur. I can't be bothered to argue with people these days - it seems pointless. By the time you're shouting, you're not listening anyway. But I remember feeling that strongly about something, and about someone, and I wonder if I ever will again. Loneliness descends. Self-pity follows.