I had been photographing the commuters on the Euston Road at the height of the rush hour and then collapsed into one of my regular food stops before thinking about the train. The pizza joint was packed and I cleared away the cameras and junk from the table to make space for another guest.
He asked about my day and I told him stories of the rush; people in transit, coming, going, moving... somewhere... else. He was fine about city, seemed to know it well. It was another of his days where he would travel off-peak to visit a museum to try to make sense. He was a writer. Military history was his thing. I got the impression that he might have seen enough of it at first hand but was still curious about the 'why'.
There was a strange truth about the conversation that I couldn't pin down so I suggested a photograph and he was fine about that too. This is it. Just one shot.
I feel curiously haunted by the picture. I witness him as he witnesses me. The sceptical gaze holds me to account. When all is said and done, what will I look back on and still wonder why?
Or any of us, for that matter.