The cycle to work lasted about twenty minutes on a good day. Half an hour if there was traffic, fifteen minutes if he was late. He was usually late. The night before each journey, his beloved would sit down at the piano and score out the soundtrack for his journey. It would cost her about an hour, a sandwich and a milkshake. And each morning, with his headphones in as he wound the clock toward 9am with his pedals, each of her chords would colour some aspect of his journey. The minor dirge or the optimistic major of a cold February drizzle, or the jaunt or villainry of a suited passer-by, or the perfect cadence of the breaking sun.