I could write a book about them...

... the things that you asked me I thought of, when I thought of you.

There're too many, I said, turning my face into your pillow, so you wouldn't see me smile. You don't want to know, anyway. What if you don't like them?

I don't care, you said earnestly. Tell me anyway.

I chewed a nail, feigning thought. All right, I said, at last. Come here and kiss me and I'll tell you. Not all of them. Only some of them. Not even the most important ones.

You slide up the bed towards me, pressing your solid chest against my breasts, and then pressing your mouth against mine. I inhale the wonderful masculine scent of you. It makes me feel high, as usual; drunk, dizzy, all those good things. As if the sun is shining even though it's December and raining. I wind your hair round my fingers.

There's your kiss, you tell me.

I say nothing. I just settle into your arms, against your warm shoulder and your neck.

Well? you say.

This, I tell you. Mornings like these.

You consider this, and then nod. Yes, you say.

The day stretches lazily before us. A warm bed. Milky tea and marmalade on toast. The smell of butter melting, chicken cooking. The sound of rain against the window, and the sound of an electric guitar. And that ever present sense that the world is just fine, thanks.

All those good things.