On The Line

No one expects a scuffle in Mayfair let alone an explosion.

The shadows reveal a man and woman parting. They stand on the corner of Park St. And Upper Brook St., just behind the American Embassy. He tries to kiss her. She pushes him away. We can’t see their faces. If we could what would they tell us? Their clothes say more. She, in a black leather and silk sleeveless top and rust coloured skirt from the House of Dagmar, Stockholm, Sweden. She found her shoes the week before in a second hand market stall behind Spitalfields. His deep grey old school Armani suit and Gucci loafer tell us all we need to know about him, wealthy, boring.

He grips her elbow. She pulls it away, ‘what’s with you?’

He thinks, if you fight with girls, you’re bound to lose.

But the alcohol tells him to try again. She slaps his hand away before he can grab her. She spins and clicks away swiftly in her new second hand shoes. He wobbles like a weeble but doesn’t fall down.

She disappears into a three story brownstone. He pulls out a cigarette, lights it and smokes like an Italian.

The streets are otherwise empty so he crosses over and props himself up against a black wrought iron fence. He can see better from here. The light flicks on in the second floor window. He can see her clearly. Her silhouette fills the frame. For a second he thinks she’s going to put on a show for him. But a venetian blind slide down in front of her. He watches for another moment, takes a drag on his cigarette, and chuckles to himself. The blinds snap closed.

He thinks, next time.

He takes a few steps in the direction of Park Lane where he can catch a cab, even at this late hour. His phone rings. He slides it from the inner pocket of his jacket.

The light from the phone illuminates his angular early forties face. We can see him for the first time. We may recognise him, but from where?

He thinks, no … this time. Smiles.

He answers, the phone explodes and no one will ever recognise him again.