We hug. I feel his top under my arms and I squeeze, slim shoulders, back, solid and real. A kiss on the cheek, a kiss on the forehead.
We lie down, folding lightly into one another; we talk, he strokes his fingers against my nape, I trail mine up and down his thigh, up, and down.
I know. I do know. But I don’t care.
I find a gameboy and on it we watch Mark’s new TV drama; next to us the music school is evacuating, a fire. Kids calmly walk out, rescuing tubas, saving music.
I start to pull away, I get worried sometimes that I’m being too clingy, I try to pull away but he gently pulls me back and I feel again him against me, my hand on his thigh, his arm around my back, warm and real.
I know, I do know. It’s OK.
We stay, a while. Lying on the grass, on the sand, the rocks, the pavement. We lie, by Charing Cross, by the sea, by Television Centre and by and by…
I have to go, we hug, we part but I can’t part, not yet. Our fingers still entwine, and I kiss them, soft and warm and real against my lips, I have to go, I know, warm duvet and pillow and birdsong.
I know. I do know.