
If only the city loved us back.
It’s here or nowhere.
A manufactured breeze sweeps through my hair. The stale air kisses my cheek as a lover might. Have you ever noticed the small Ferris wheel designs on the fabric of the seats? Isn’t that so clever? Of course I’ve never been to the Eye. It’s for tourists.
I am not a tourist; I will reside here one day. I’m a prospective lover of sorts, you might say. This is a courtship.
I exit the stuffed station, met by the suddenly cool evening air; just a couple hours before, the air was too thick to breathe. There was a time when I considered myself extremely sensitive to drastic temperature changes. But for London? I don’t really mind.
(Look at me, London! I am fitting myself into your box!)
I begin my walk back to my flat, studying the city. I study the uneven pavement to ensure that I don’t trip, because true Londoners never trip. I study various works of graffiti and murals, created by artists of all sorts, like love letters to this place. How many of them went unanswered?
I realize that I haven’t written a love letter to London yet. I don’t want to come on too strong or scare it away. If I never ask the question, it can’t turn me down.
I haven’t been mugged yet, so surely this city loves me too.
