Pablo. You told me that was your name. Somebody told me that you were a ballet dancer, and that kind of did it for me.

You are always alone. But last night, you stood beside me and smoked a cigarette.

I glanced, and you smiled. You glanced, and I smiled.

And then you said I was hot, which is something all Europeans say when trying to chat British lads up. And, I said something typically English, that you were hot too. And we both laughed.

We chatted about drunk people and how they amused us.

You asked me when I finished work, and I told you six in the morning, and you looked disappointed. You finished your cigarette and walked back inside

And then it turned out you weren’t a ballet dancer but worked six days a week in a Polish bakery, and every time I’ve seen you since, you ignore me.