...I think of that car park where we first kissed and he floored the gas by reflex and accident
...Of the first night we spent together and the wind that shook the trees and their branches that rattled against the windows of our house and his hands travelling my body and the kiss of his breath in the hollow of my throat, and our whispering voices rising and falling and touching like hands in the dark
...of the ragged moorlines of our shared history, our buried griefs
... of holding a broken man, of being held when our child was coming into the world (but that was later)
... and before it there was a weekend in a city across the Channel, staying in that shabby cheap hotel and walking in Montmartre for hours getting increasingly lost, holding hands, laughing mostly, looking at people's houses and the spread of a twinkling city before us and talking for the first time of who we are and where we want to be, and weaving dreams and making plans, breaking rules, talking and crafting that forbidden foolish thing they call The Future.