Branches - Short Story

I suppose this came about because of an idea: to explore a particular place and time from the different angles of different characters. I've then fitted this loose story around them - based on hidden links and connections that aren't obvious, but which bring them together where these people are assumed strangers. Looking back on it I've noticed the prevalence of natural imagery in my writing, and there's also a little bit of a play with symbolism and using metaphors - but mostly its a kind of exercise in characterisation, which I've not really done much of in the first person before...
Anyhoo, I give to you my first proper short story, and as ever, feel free to comment and all that stuff

Whirling down into the concrete labyrinth, infusing with the rainfall, fell leaves from the lofty heights of a maple tree. At the ground they landed: scattered as a sea of crumpled parchment where they seemed so distant, so different - statements to their own new found independence.

But they all came from the same tree, didn't they?

Shoes clattered through the streets of the city. No time. Not any more. Checking his watch the man darted through the crowd of leaves, crashed his way through the puddles which left their fingerprints across his trousers. He'd regret that, he was sure. No time for regret - he was late anyway. It was fashionable to be late, wasn't it? Oh well, he would have to leave it to her judgement. The closing doors of the bus reflected in the puddle as he neared the shelter - he was so close! A grunt of machinery, a burst of fumes, and the bus rolled apathetically away. Panting, the man rested his head against the glass in resignation, lost in his thoughts and guilt as the wind and rain whipped through his hair carelessly. His breath swelled across the panel, obscuring the figures behind.

She didn't need to see him enter, and for a while she didn't see him at all. Why would she? He was another face, another nameless person she would never recognise again, besides, her world was a bubble sealed by headphones. Music were her walls and comfort, and she was lost in the raucous of her phone. Friends linked like a web and she was the spider, jumping with purpose across the invisible network that was her dwelling. However she did notice the decidedly wet man stand a few metres off, and was glad she'd brought a coat. It was then that she also looked at the timetable screen above her: 2 minutes. Back to the phone. Due. Lazily the bus rolled over, like a dog too old to play fetch anymore, and came for the exchange of commuters. People sprawled like ants through the doors and onto the sodden pavement where they fell into the cacophony of city life. A moment of pause; the doors sat open for her; she moved and was briskly swept to the side by the man who bustled in with a slight air of trepidation.

Seated at the window, the man found himself in the eye of a storm, in a space to reflect as the world glided past. What would she think? Had he not chosen the cafe, the date and the time? He couldn't be late to this of all things, not late for her. He tried to recall her face, not that he'd seen her before much, tried to recall the eyes, the button nose, how they broke through the dark hair...
Stopping.
Back into the cold autumn air he whirled, back into the throng of his impatience. Time was ticking. Before him lay the labyrinth of streets, the paved and cobbled maze of offices, shops, markets and cafes. Ducking into a florist he bought a small bunch of flowers - maybe he thought it would lessen the blow. Out into the cold he ushered his new precious cargo through the drizzle and bustle towards a small timid cafe on the street corner.

Looking up from his coffee, a small man glanced out of the cafe window onto the street. He was coming. Better drink up. The small man didn't pay for his drink, as it was after all, not a real cafe: instead a mere fabrication, a seed implanted into the mind of his next mark lurking, waiting for his financial reward. His accomplices lurking too - behind the bar, in the kitchen, even on the other side of the mark's table. It was a lucratively intricate scam, but one which would reap the benefits when - if - it succeeded. But that was not his concern for now, his profile was printed in inky darkness across every broadsheet and tabloid currently hot off the press and his presence would easily be noticed. Wrapping a scarf across his neck and mouth, the notorious con artist passed like a shadow through the threshold into the breeze - holding the door on the way for a man with a small windswept collection of flowers.
"Thank you"
"You're welcome"
Very.

Outside a pidgeon, dishevelled by the weather and chaos, weaved it's way through the nooks and crannies of a pedestrian lattice - disgruntled at the insensitively small donations of bread and pastry crumbs. At the sudden movement of a looming man with a scarf it fluttered manically up into the air, into the lofty heights of a maple tree.