0013 Aftermath: London, July 7,2005

Two days after, when they'd cleared away the mangled meaningless twist of metal, familiar red paint smeared with oily black, its intended destination still proclaimed, I passed the place on business and walked more slowly avoiding the eyes of others in case they imagined in my eyes or I in theirs, some falsity, some failure of the mind, some lack of the appropriate emotion, whatever that might be - almost a guilt acquired in some complicity In the gutter, a glove, brown, damp, like a hand, lying on its back, its fingers slightly curled as if in mute request for a reason but to whom, now, to return it?