Drunk, I stagger out. More places to visit tonight. In one, she sits and waits, not necessarily for me. My bike taunts me. Why did I bring it here? What do I do with it now?

I leave it there, leering at my jumping without even her beck and call. Leave it there on the high street. Screw them all, I’m leaving my bike tied up here tonight. It will wait for me, won’t it?

I come back this evening. The bike is there, in front of the bar, chain still tightly wrapped around the lamp post. In the basket I find a pint glass, a packet of cigarettes, someone’s memories of nightly revelry, all empty.