The bus rattled over Vauxhall Bridge, and the Thames—black and gleaming—ran beneath us. So much water, as though somewhere a dam had broken. On my lap I held the telephone box from Peter’s flat in a carrier bag Adewale had given me.

“It’s mine,” I told him.

“Of course,” he said carefully, and then, “Please will you go now?”

I rather wanted to stay. I had a friend once, an Irishman, Danny, who let me keep him company during his night shifts. He worked security at a shopping center in Stratford, ignoring the flickering feed of empty aisle and car park in favor of books he bought at a market by the river, rubbing his grizzled chin as he tried to teach me chess in the small hours. On Sundays, we walked the city.

“This is where Shakespeare washed his socks.” Or, “Here’s where Jonson killed his man, Andy.”

Danny promising to show me Galway, never showing a sign of wanting to lay a hand on me. There had always been people I wanted to talk to, and people I wanted to touch. On the whole, they had been distinct groups.

On my fingers, I counted the years since I’d been with someone, since I’d properly made an effort to get to know someone. To let someone know me.

At the lights, as though following my thoughts, the bus gave a mortal, shuddering sigh. A taxi would have been quicker, but the bus had been approaching and going in the right direction. Perhaps I’d wanted the company.

All around, heads were bent over phones. At each stop, the eyes flickered up. Danny had been proof that kindness was unavoidable, even if you weren’t looking for it. Still, who knew when one of us would start knifing another or kicking someone down the stairs. A group of beery lads got on and the beauty in the row in front turned toward the window and brought her arm up to shield her face, like a rich man concealing his Rolex within his sleeve.

The cafes were closed now, and the restaurants. A take-away glimmered here and there like hope eternal. In Chelsea, the hospital rooms were darkened, the corridors emitting a weak fluorescent glow. At Sloane Square, a man swung into the seat beside me and opened Tinder, swiping left at each woman’s picture like a person with a nervous tic. What’s wrong with that one, or that one? I wanted to say. You’ll run out if you go on like that. Only he wouldn’t, of course.

I snuck a glance at his face, youngish, not un-handsome, but his brow was furrowed, his cuticles gnawed raw, as though rather than looking for a potential date, he was grimly searching for the perpetrator of a crime that had been committed against him. The thought made me smile, and I turned to the window before he could notice.