Foreplay

The waiter turns on the gas lamp and it warms me up to my elbows. J rolls me a cigarette, tells me I look hot in the only suit I own and wore for an early morning meeting. He smiles.

The scene is set. I have to be brave.

I do not order a bottle of red on purpose, then change my mind and have a glass of red.
‘Work is crazy busy,’ I begin, feeling like I’m eavesdropping on my own conversation.
He reaches across the table, takes my hand and strokes my knuckles.
‘We should go away, soon,’ he suggests.
I see the holiday in my mind. Waking up in sheets wrapped in Spanish morning sun, J’s toes kneading my calves. It’s funny really, what you think you want, the exhibition portraits in your head.
'I’m shattered,’ I try. ‘Early night as soon as we get in?’
'Can we at least eat first?’ he laughs.
Sometimes, I know he thinks I say very rom-com girly things. It bothers me that he loves me all the more for them.

Sunset is all up in his curls. He looks fluffy. Our plates look like nuclear fall-out.

We take a detour home. Cruise by the second-hand bookshop. Pass the lone Scientologist who’s almost impossible to ignore.

I’m not playing hard to get tonight. I am tired. Contemplative. Content.

J’s arm slips around my waist, giving it a squeeze, transporting me to later, in bed, where I’m too tired to resist.