The underground station exit exhaled across the concourse, a humid fug of dust and cheap burgers. Seconds later it vomited a steady stream of humanity. People rushing, people shuffling, people’s faces lit blue by their phones.

Mark could feel sweat trickling down his back as he studied the departure board: twenty-two minutes until his train home. Time for a coffee; he needed a pick-me-up on this broiling city evening. He’d gulped down a large glass of cold water before leaving the office half an hour earlier, but already his mouth felt like sandpaper.

While queuing at Costa (why couldn’t people just hurry up and get out of the way?), his attention was caught by a lone pigeon dragging itself along the stained concrete outside, one wing cocked awkwardly. Probably injured. Poor thing. It paused at an oily puddle and alternated between pecking morosely at the fetid water and jerking its head upwards towards other pigeons fluttering far overhead, riding the thermals beneath the steel and glass station roof.

Mark found his coffee predictably molten hot (how do they get it that hot?), lips recoiling from the scalding muddy liquid. So he found a seat and, waiting for his drink to cool while staring vacantly at the cup, he didn’t at first notice the girl who sat down on the other side of the table.

A quick glance. She was pretty, but he couldn’t see too much blinking into the golden orange sunlight slanting through the heavy air, rendering her blonde hair a burning halo.

The girl smiled. ‘Phew. It’s sweltering today, isn’t it?’’

The conversation that followed was like plunging into cool, delicious water. Washing away the dirt and fatigue. Full of polite, British banalities, yes: the weather, of course the weather; and how was work today, and what have you got planned for the weekend (it’s going to rain then of course, typical!); and my manager’s driving me crazy. A glimpse of another world, something else beyond quiet desperation.

He drank it in, just for those few moments he managed somehow to pretend that she was talking to him, not the other man opposite her. But even Mark could only deceive himself for so long. It was soon time to get up and trudge towards his platform. Home, and the thin, fleeting relief it would bring.

He looked back only once. The girl was still there, but the pigeon outside Costa was gone.