The gate from the cemetery leads here, to this café. There’s a subconscious reassurance in slipping scalding coffee down an active throat. Let the bogeys and bloody-bones, raw-heads and ghouls bother us if they can. This is light and warmth and smoke and solidity. I decided to try the café, out of masochism, out of habit, out of hope. I thought it might comfort me, although I noticed how little comfort was to be got from familiar things. How dare they stay the same when so much that mattered had changed? Why does your sweater senselessly smell of you, keep your shape when you are not there to wear it? I don’t want to be reminded of you, I want you. I’ve been thinking of leaving London, going back to the ridiculous rented cottage for a while. Why not? Make a fresh start, isn’t that one of those useful clichés?

October. Why stay? There’s nothing worse than being in a crowded place when you are alone. The city is always crowded. Since I’ve been in this café with a calvados and an espresso the door has opened eleven times bringing in a boy or a girl to meet a boy or a girl with a calvados and an espresso. Behind the high brass and glass counter the staff in long aprons are joking. There’s music on, soul stuff, everyone’s busy, happy or, it seems, purposefully unhappy. Those two over there, he pensive she agitated. Things aren’t going well but at least they’re talking. I’m the only person alone in this café and I used to love being alone. That was when I had the luxury of knowing that soon someone would push open the heavy door and look for me. I remember those times, getting to the assignation an hour early to have a drink by myself and read a book. I was almost regretful when the hour came and the door opened and it was time to stand up and kiss you on the cheek and rub your cold hands. It was the pleasure of walking in the snow in a warm coat, that choosing to be alone. Who wants to walk in the snow naked?

I paid and left. Out here in the street, striding purposefully, I can give the impression that I’ve got somewhere to go. There’s a light on in my flat and you’ll be there as arranged with your own key. I don’t have to hurry, I’m enjoying the night and the cold on my cheeks. Summer’s gone, the cold’s welcome. I did the shopping today and you said you’d cook. I’ll call and get the wine. It gives me a loose-limbed confidence to know you’ll be there. I’m expected. There’s a continuum. There’s freedom. We can be kites and hold each other’s string. No need to worry the wind will be too strong.

Here I am outside my flat. The lights are out. The rooms are cold. You won’t come back. Nevertheless, sitting on the floor by the door, I’m going to write you a letter with my address and leave it in the morning when I go. If you get this please answer, I’ll meet you in the café and you’ll be there won’t you. Won’t you?