London words

Yesterday I started working at the Tate Modern. And by work I mean run around, follow my own rules and tell people very personal things about myself. I started talking to two women about falling, being and wanting to be in love. I asked what they thought, or what their experience was. One of the women became flustered. The other woman looked at me and said shook her head. Then the woman started crying. Because I had no clue how to react, or how one was supposed to react to something like this, I just told her that everything would be alright. I sort of stroked her back a bit, in a desperate attempt to emphasize those obvious and supposedly soothing words. Of course I couldn't be sure, since I didn't know why she was crying and what her story was, but I figured it was almost always true. Unless of course the love of her life had just died and the chances of her ever finding anyone remotely as lovely are slim because she is an agoraphobe who is a mute who has an inherent fear of intimacy which took her former husband twenty years to break through. But let's not assume the worst. I am afraid most London days will be like this.