Like when we’re caught making out on the fire escape of the club.
Joined on a bench at three in the morning, by a homeless guy with a gammy leg.
Advised by a policeman not to leave our stuff, which consists of two bags of crisps and a clutch bag, on the wall – against which we’re making out (you might spot a theme here).
VP suggesting we find a side street in which to make out, before salt and vinegar and sweet chilli and sour cream call a halt to the whole jolly business. Which they don’t.
The moment when the bus rolls away, I look to my left, and our eyes meet.
‘Not far off!’
I don’t tell him I’m walking the last forty minutes. Not walking – dancing.
Falling asleep to the sound of birdsong.
Daydreaming in the park the next day, feeling my face grow hot in the sun, remembering what he said about my pale complexion.
His name appearing on the screen of my phone as I prepare dinner.