In times of crisis, the love affairs of strangers remain endlessly absorbing.
I live in Bloomsbury, a London neighborhood whose name is synonymous with a long-gone, still-romanticized period of post-Victorian literary and sexual experimentation. Today, its reputation is built primarily around its convenient spread of transit links, which loop out in every direction, funneling sardine-packed commuters in and out of the hipper, more residential zones of the city. As a result, my pocket of the city is a bustling epicenter of low-stakes weeknight courtship: first or second dates, after-work drinks or single-course meals, arrived at with low expectations and curfews in mind. By 10:30 p.m. most nights, the streets return to quiet. Occasionally, if the weather permits, a pair will linger outside the upscale bar across the road from my flat, struck silly by unexpected chemistry, or too much weeknight wine, or a combination of the two.
- The Outline
