Everything here feels harsh and bright, hard and unyielding, all sharp edges. I find it almost impossible to believe that I was ever part of this life; this harsh, unrelenting cacophony of noise and motion as millions of dead eyed souls rush around me like fast moving water around a boulder. London may only be a short flight from Spain but it feels like a different planet, one where time moves too quickly, at a pace that now feels alien and hostile to me.
Even amongst the throngs of people here I feel so detached and alone and I yearn to be back there, back with Paulo. But I can't, and as much as it pained me I had no choice but to return here. But the events of my time in Spain have changed me profoundly, it feels as though I have been away for years like some frozen space traveller, awakened to find that decades have passed on my home planet and everything has changed.
The mild September day is grey and overcast, it is still warm by British standards but I shiver and pull my cardigan tighter around me as I sip my coffee on the park bench. I close my eyes and draw in a long, deep breath through a chest full of broken glass, it tastes like exhaust fumes and anxiety. I exhale slowly and get to my feet, dropping my barely touched coffee into a nearby waste bin as I set off along the greasy pavement in my uncomfortable shoes, daydreaming of sand beneath my bare feet.
Back in my office I go about my day in a haze of apathy, barely able to take my eyes off the clock as I drag myself painfully towards the end of my working day like a lost desert traveller crawling towards an oasis. A short while ago I was so happy here, this was my dream job in my dream city, but now I am seeing the world through different eyes and I can see it for what it really is. I used to work so hard here, always going the extra mile after fully buying into the corporate ethos like a happy, compliant drone. When five o'clock finally arrives I am first to leave.
On my walk to the station I stop off at the supermarket to buy wine and a microwave pasta meal for one. I continue on to the underground station and along with hundreds of other rush hour commuters I cram myself into a cramped tube carriage that smells of stale urine and sweat, taking care not to meet anyone's gaze. As my journey out of the city progresses, the train sheds passengers during its frequent stops and my carriage gradually empties until there is just me and one other passenger remaining.
He is slouched in his seat a few feet away from me, the hood of his black sweatshirt pulled tightly around his head, the peak of a grubby baseball cap protrudes out from beneath. Even from several feet away he smells like someone puked in an ashtray. I don't have to look at him to tell that he is staring at me intently. As the train nears my stop I glance at him as I rise from my seat and I am forced to walk past him as I head towards the carriage doors and I see that he has his hand down inside his filthy track suit bottoms. As I pass by, he raises his other hand towards me, reaching out and uttering some unintelligible obscenity that collapses stillborn into a pathetic wheezing laugh.
I practically jump from the train and onto the platform as soon as the doors slide open and then turn back and anxiously wait for the train to pull away again. I half expect the pathetic creature to lurch out from between the doors as they slide shut, but as the train pulls away it takes it's foul cargo along with it and I relax my grip on the neck of the wine bottle. I briskly walk the last mile to my flat, nervously glancing over my shoulder every few seconds until I reach the sanctuary of my front door.
Once inside I contemptuously kick off my stupid work shoes and head to the kitchen and place the wine in the freezer before heading to the bathroom. I shed clothes with every step until I reach the shower and I stand, almost trance like beneath the warm deluge of water as it carries away the grime of my day. After what feels like an age I turn off the water and dry myself down.
I walk to my bedroom and pick up Paulo's T-shirt from the end of the bed and hold it to my face, inhaling deeply, trying to find even the faintest trace of him, but however hard I try, it just isn't there. I slip the shirt on and head downstairs and warm up my meal in the microwave. I install myself in front of the TV, barely aware of what is happening on the screen in front of me as I numbly eat my rubbery pasta from its plastic container, washing each mouthful down with a sip of wine and trying hard not to cry.
I wake up on the sofa in the early hours of the morning, cold, groggy and confused and feeling like I have woken in a strange place. I swing my bare feet down to the floor, knocking over my empty wine bottle as I rise up and shuffle sleepily towards the bathroom, switching off the TV to silence the idiot on the late night shopping channel as I pass it. I shamble to the bathroom, the freezing cold floor tiles shock me fully awake and I pull on every ounce of strength I possess to not burst into tears.
