A girl with red hair sits in a cafe. She writes a letter, then pauses to tap her pen against a coffee cup. She sighs and then pushes her hair away from her forehead, then glances over the tables.By chance, her eyes meet,as if she is looking for help.

The next day. Sie is reading Heidegger and looks very alone. All this might be conceived coincidence.The cafe smells of damp coats and steam. I move my chair slightly to look at her. She pretends not to notice.

A week later. She is no longer here, but her removed presence warms the near pathological emptiness of the cafe. Outside I see commuters sheeping towards the station, and more life gets lost in sleet. I hope to see her again, but she has gone.