We were in a Japanese noodle bar, somewhere in North London.
It wasn't one of the slick ones you see everywhere now, all stripped bamboo wood and an elegant floor plant by the door.
We're talking orange formica-topped tables, sticky soy sauce bottles and luminous lighting.
She came out of the toilet just as my noodles were slipping off my chopsticks again. She strode past our table in stone-washed, torn jeans and a black leather jacket. I watched over the edge of my bowl as she made her way towards a guy who was sitting by the window with a huge dog in a studded collar, and it quickly became clear that the dog was hers.
They didn't stay for long – he paid the bill – but when they left, the door rattled behind them and I resolved to paint her.