Downtown London. Gum wrappers dropped unceremoniously on the sidewalk. Clicking heels on the sidewalk indicate someone's in a hurry. A lady rushes past; judging by the way that she missed a button when doing up her coat, she's running quite late. Sirens wail – an approaching ambulance, from its high frequency – and cars angrily honk their horns in protest. A couple argues in front of their flat. He's finally realized the extent of her infidelity; given that the chalk lines on her sleeve can only mean that she's a schoolteacher, there could be no other logical explanation as to how she removes her wedding ring with such practiced ease.
The crowd stops as we reach a corner. The scent of cheap perfume and stale sweat fills the air. The man in front of me has been unemployed for several months now, if his frayed jeans and the desperate way that he clutches today's classified advertisements are anything to go by. The woman behind me has spent several months in America; she's speaking to a landlady on her mobile phone about renting a nearby "apartment" from her.
People impatiently begin to congest around me, as if that will allow them to cross the street more quickly. Suddenly my acute senses are overwhelmed by this myriad of sensations to be observed and analyzed. The intensity of the lights momentarily blinds me as the world around me begins to blur. The noises that surround me – chewing gum, heels on the pavement, and snippets of conversation – are amplified until they become almost painful to listen to.
A reassuring hand grasps my arm, steadying me. The too-bright lights and background noise fade away to nothingness. All that is left is John, my source of stability in this constantly busy world.