I finish work at ten-thirty, and go home on foot — just a seven minute walk. There's a person walking up the road ahead of me: white coat, closed umbrella. No rain, but wet pavements bouncing the yellow lights. Can't tell if it's male or female; looks female: has an umbrella. Stops at the bus-stop. Sits. Few street-lights brighten this end of the street, but the bus-stop glows like it's unbelonging. There are no buses for nearly thirty minutes. She sees me walking up the road. Stands, and continues walking away from me, until the white of her coat turns a muted silver. At the darkest point. In the middle of two street-lights. She stops then turns, I think. I head into my driveway. My girlfriend tells me about her day. Shows me the things she's bought, then tells me about two young adults drunk — and a situation — walking down the same street, on the other side of the road. One of them was so drunk that he kept bungling from pavement, to road, to pavement. She said they were shouting and loud and that she was scared. One of them shouted something she couldn't quite hear, so she ignored it. They got louder — started falling over more of the road, then they turned right and her left. She coughs like a gun; one short burst. Then we fall into our silences.