Shelter

Walking along the river on the South Bank alone, hair blowing in the wind, hand clutching my phone, my mind wanders around recent events. Inevitably, her face enters my mind once more; her sultry eyes; the carefree movement of her limbs as she walks, skips and dances; that smile and how it contorts her face to join in its brightness. He enters my mind - as beautiful as her, his strong jaw, uncertain smile and those soft brown eyes which could only rightfully belong to a poetic soul. My mind struggles with its conflict of interests: him and her. I open the message containing his phone number once more, eyes squint in the early-morning sun as it bounces off the steel-blue water, across the modern glass buildings of the South Bank. I shelter from it in the shade of Tower Bridge and peer at the intimidating eleven digits.
I copy them and begin a 'new message'; "Mark, it's Anna. How are you?"
A slow step, I know, but necessary, I conclude. Hopefully, he won't simply reply, "good. u?" He didn't seem the type to use phonetic spelling, but everybody has to have at least one flaw. I continue walking alongside the Thames and wait for his response.