THE SECOND

So this evening I quickly jump onto a bus from Waverley train station after coming back from Sheffield, and this perfect-looking feline of a woman, about 40 years old, sits next to me. All expensive French perfume, smooth skin, Agent Provocateur?, red heels, and immaculate hair. I'm absolutely shattered after the concert the night before, which by the way was most enjoyable once again in every sense (thanks Moodi + Brian), am probably looking even more rough and not-so-ready and degenerate than normal, so feel no energy whatsoever to engage in any dialogue, even though she's looking across a couple of times. But then there's a nasty messy car accident in front of us. Some guy with his girlfriend crashes his shiny Mercedes into railings at the West End of Princes Street and as so often happens, a moment of drama interrupts a process and creates a common close connection... and so almost like a scene out of In The Mood For Love, we find ourselves engaged in the most electrically fucking charged of conversations, both skilfully weaving around mixed suggestive metaphors like a pair of old sluttish pros, oblivious to who or what's around, until a butterfly's lifetime later it was her stop, and with a wink and a wave and a smile to each other through the departing bus window, were gone into the night.