And its the first time since September that I've felt like this. The wooden floor. The echo of sirens in the streets. Voices inside. A wall of books. A sixty something inch television. Red wine. Stacks of post boxes. Security guards. Window boxes. The alcove in the bathroom where a single candle sits.
From the decked floor of the balcony of this Islington flat I am listening to an argument. Half listening, half staring at the render on the underside of the upper balcony. Irritated by its uneven appearance. And its not the first time since September that I have missed him. And I know this. I also know that I will leave the city, despite this, without seeing him. It has been two years.
A text message. A sip of wine. The man carrying two dinning room chairs. Two forty something year old women. The table in the hallway. A Schindler's lift.