You don’t pay attention to the ground beneath your feet. You walk on it, so it’s there – why would you look down?
‘What’s keeping you?’
Your question is spiky with impatience.
‘I’m going to take a picture, won’t be a second. Look at this tiny blue blossom.’
You’re five yards on already. Five more and you’ll be swallowed by a wave of commuters spilling out of the station. If I let you, you’ll go on without me.
You’ve forced me to make a choice: Will I keep up with you or take the picture?
I realise I have a choice.