I met a man who wasn’t really there. The mountains were rippling with cold in the late evening when the sun had given up the day. The scudding clouds spat in my face as I trudged along the beaten track. Black pines sighed above me and magpies whistled and swooped.

The man walked ahead of me, downcast like a shadow, dragging a dog lead on the ground behind him. The empty noose left a trail in the dust and caught momentarily on the twigs and thistles on the path. Did he know that his dog was lost? Perhaps this kind of uncommitted relationship was easier to bear.

Our paths diverged eventually and soon I came upon a dog of sorts, a wretched refugee from reality no less. It squatted alone, heinous and dissolute, a martyr to its own shortcomings. I was sure that it had turned away from the plodding human that dragged its memory behind, convinced that no love is better than bad love.

It was obvious to all but me that it was the man who was lost and not the dog. Night stalked me and soon the day had slipped away like a rabbit to its home. Still I staggered on the bitter track holding tightly to the leash and thought about the one that got away.