The last time I came to London on my own, I was still married. That May I had sat with Bhargavi in her kitchen, talking about art while men grunted in a courtyard, lobbing a tennis ball back and forth.
The players were still there, albeit with different faces, as we sipped on cognac and talked about near futures last night. London is not only him, and late-night wanderings, and the windows of a hotel room fogged with shared breath.
London is also a room full of academics discussing time-spaces and possible futures for image-historiography. Shared cognac, the smell of fresh paint, double-buckled waffle-patterned cream shoes. Floral print tights, round-framed sunglasses, mussed black hair to here. Almond ice cream wrapped in gold foil. Achingly beautiful boys pressed against my back on the crowded Tube.
And tomorrow I will discover a renewed London: layer upon layer upon layer of sensuous detail, and somewhere among these layers, my time with him, my London with him, buried and not so keen, so keen in memory.