This charming man—he would go out tonight, but he hasn’t got a scent to wear. London is cold tonight, dreary. When he pulls on his overcoat, lights a cigarette and walks out along the silver curve of the Thames, he trails behind him a shadow of tobacco, blonde wood, musk. The granite is damp along the banks as he strolls toward the loud Ferris wheel crowd. He’d rather go for a walk where it’s quiet and dry, talk to her of precious things. Life is very long when you’re lonely.