Creeping up

I´m always surprised that despite being home to more than seven million people, I regularly bump into people from my past in London. I´ll be minding my own business, power-walking the Piccadilly/Jubilee line interchange at Green Park, when a familiar walk will flash past, grazing my vision, forcing me to blink with surprise. This happens maybe twice a month, and I´ll probably speak to one of those people. The conversation generally goes one of two ways. The first sees us screaming, we´ll wrap our arms around once-familiar shoulders, look closely into eyes, now wiser, and subconsciously put 110% effort in re-engaging in a relationship. Vital stats are exchanged - the whats, wheres, whos and hows of this city. Numbers are punched decisively into mobiles, and we´ll part, strides now bouncing, hair flicking, eyes shining with memories now floating up through the murky dirt of the tube platform. The second is awkward, fleeting. We feign interest in boyfriends long past, convenient flats with off-street parking, the dream job with the dragon boss, the love for the city. One of us will crack first, the phone comes out of the bag, eleven digits are begrudingly entered onto an already too-full SIM. We´ll never call each other, we both know that, but we´re British and polite, and gosh, "I´ve got a train to catch!" and she´s gone.