We met on a hot day in April by Harrods, you in your suit with laptop and a City grin and me with a charity shop Jaeger dress and my feet sore from London walking. I had a twitter friend with me, and was strangely anxious about you both meeting, what if you didn’t like each other? As it was, who could resist your eyes? Warm, friendly, alive and an unusual hazel colour. They warm the personality denying City uniform and speak always of a lively intelligence and a very special pair of hands.
We said good-bye to my friend and caught the tube to the Tate Modern. A Picasso exhibition had caught our eye and we thought we would go. I got to the down escalator first and you stood behind me and for the first time we connected. I could feel you behind me, your surprising warmth as the blood pulsed around your body, your solidity as you stood there, feet wide, heels braced, and I leaned in. Chin up, head back, my shoulders onto you chest, your hand around my waist. And I breathed so deeply.
You had me, I could feel it.
Right in that moment you were there, as much there as when you hurt me with our eyes locked, as when you fucked me as we looked in the mirror, as much as when I cried out in pain as my world collapsed and I was left with nothing.
Later that evening we chatted with a girl from the USA over drinks in the Globe Theatre and I saw your look as I spoke so expansively and articulately of our us. The same look of desire as when I took the extra strap from your belt. The same sense of wonder that I was yours and the same sense of pride of what we had created.
It is a wonderful thing.