Elizabeth Hand / Hungerford Bridge

Elizabeth Hand Hungerford Bridge by Elizabeth Hand

CONJUNCTIONS:52, Spring 2009  I HADN’T HEARD FROM Miles for several months when he wrote to ask if I wanted to get together for lunch. Of course I did, and several days later I met him at a noisy, cheerful restaurant at South Bank. It was early February, London still somewhat dazed by the heavy snowfall that had recently paralyzed the city. The Thames seemed a river of lead; a black skim of ice made the sidewalks treacherous—I’d seen another man fall as I’d walked from Waterloo Station—and I wished I’d worn something warmer than the old wool greatcoat I’d had since college.      But once settled into the seat across from Miles, all that fell away.      “You’re looking well, Robbie,” he said, smiling.      “You too.”