In order for a coin toss to truly be valid, you must call it in the air, meaning you declare, before the coin hits the ground, which side will be on top when it lands.

I went walking alone in Covent Garden tonight, in the balmy air. The presence of magic and love was so strong, nobody was immune. In my head, you walked with me.

There was the perfect number of people milling about: enough to provide a point of interest, but not so many that it felt intrusive. The tourists moved on with the setting of the sun and the people left are the ones who spend enough time here to know that this is when she is at her best.

The grey stone building with its thick columns parades its splendour in the soft light. The 18th century Apple Market warehouses with their steel frames and glass roofs are empty of the antique and craft stalls they now encase.

Up ahead the intimate couple sits facing each other, straddling a bench, sharing a bottle of wine without any glasses. Next to them, a few feet away are the duo on a first date. He's working his charm and spinning her his repertoire of stories that show how cool he is. She's taking it all in, but giving nothing away.

We round a corner and we can hear the sounds of a lone Flamenco guitar. I'm not holding your hand because the electricity that engulfs us has drawn my soul so far out of my body that it's touching yours anyway.

I keep skipping ahead of you and turning around. Looking at you, my eyes say "Come on!" and you smile and think "hehe she's so cute". You're dragging your feet because you know I won't stray far from your side and because you're conscious that anyone on our wavelength can also hear me shouting "LOOK! ISN'T IT ALL SO BEAUTIFUL?!"

We round another corner and there's our guitarist. He's sitting on the cobbles with his cheap PA and his battered guitar and his fingers that know every note on its worn strings without having to look or feel. We stop a while and you come up behind me and put your chin in the nape of my neck. I put my hands on top of yours and lean back into you.

A rickshaw squeaks past with a couple on the seat. They're on their ninth date and he's listening animatedly as she tells him about the time she tripped getting off the escalator at Waterloo in the rush hour spilling coffee down her white blouse; describing in minute detail the shade of crimson she turned in the junior school when she let one slip in class.

You toss a heavy coin into the guitar case and whisper in my ear "let's get out of here".

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