By Matthew Dove
A woman sits alone on a beach, the eyes of the world on the nape of her neck. What does that weight feel like? I’ve passed thousands of women on the beach, on the street, on the platforms of a hundred train stations and asked the same question, felt that same ache. The nonchalant eyes, divine, oblivious charm, fleeting infatuation and to think in a crowd there could be the spectres of a dozen abject men haunting the same woman: All of us taking a lonely nibble on the image before us.