I look around, the hordes of the homeless. Cardboard pavements. Then I see him, cramped like the buildings in a steamy alcove. The down-and-out, drifter, washed up here on unfortunate tides. Our worlds coincide. Sleeping bags piled up. Anne, as unromantic to the world as to me, turns her face away, stomps on, don’t make eye contact just ignore. I look to him. He is busking. Saxophone: brass sea...