Piccadilly line, 9.51pm. I'm heading west from Leicester Square, stood at the end of the carriage by the emergency exit.
At the next station, Piccadilly Circus, a tall man gets on and stands next to me. He is facing the opposite way, solemn, staring straight out of the lowered window of the emergency door. He is wearing wraparound sunglasses - an object that would have looked odd at any point during today's gloomy October day - let alone at nearly 10pm. This however, is not the most beguiling thing about the man.
In his right hand he is drinking from a can of Stella, while in his left hand he clutches a thorny rose.
All these things combined seem to indicate that he has not had a great night. In fact, the Stella seems to have a very close, causal relationship with the presence of the rose. Perhaps at this point in the evening he was hoping the rose to be in the (gloved) hands of a lover, or perhaps laying on the floor of a bedroom along with his pants and an empty condom wrapper.
Either way I have never seen such a masculine display of - what I have perceived to be - unrequited love.
At the next station, Green Park, he stays where he is. But after a couple of seconds he seems to have made the impromptu decision to disembark. I think he's finished the Stella and has spotted a bin to place the empty can in. Risky business, he's already delayed getting off the train and the doors won't be open for long.
There is indeed a bin just outside the carriage. He takes a dejected stroll over to it, but lingers there. Clearly he hasn't just dropped the can in and moved on. Curious, I bend down to get a better view out of the windows that face the platform. He is stood between me and the bin, obscuring his action.
As he moves away, there lies the rose, perched carefully, drooping sadly, on the back rim of the bin - its fate undecided. It will either fall gently, unnoticed into the bag below, or perhaps a fortunate, tipsy fellow will pounce on it and hand it to his beloved.
The man meanwhile, has disappeared into the throng.