We’d had Thai together that night.
I’m a creature of habit, so of course I had vegetable green curry and insisted on a fried starter. You, on the other hand, had something new, something that was red and spicy but which wasn’t Thai red curry because you’re an adventurous eater that takes risks. But it had tofu and it was vegan. You chose it because it was vegan. You chose it, because, despite being a meat eater, it meant more to you that we could share something instead of nothing.
I giggled a lot over that dinner, laughed and was so in love. I looked at your face and saw no-one other than you. I couldn’t care less about the food, it was only your company I needed. We’ve had so many times when it’s only been us, where although we’ve been surrounded by thousands, our focus has only been on the other. You remember Regents Street, don’t you? I remember your eyes. The intensity.
But that night, we weren’t in London. We were in this small, quaint market village in east central England, where you had attended a medical conference earlier that day and I had slaved over an online exam at our hotel, drinking cider with the owner and struggling with poor Wi-Fi whilst you had tea with colleagues and discussed cancer.
I couldn’t wait until you came back. When you stepped into our room – a charmingly decorated ex-stable with a cold shower and shite heating for a cold February trip – I jumped on you with a hug and showed you the fat cat (which you insisted wasn’t a Maine Coon) and hens I had made acquaintances with just outside of our chamber, telling you their names and that it was indeed their eggs you ate at breakfast, the ones you had noted tasted ‘really fresh’ and wanted more of when we woke up together the next day. Your arms were around my waist the whole time as we looked at them and then gazed at the fields, the green hills rolling and lapping for miles with sheep and horses dotted around. So charming, both you and the view.
Walking hand-in-hand through the quiet town that night was blissful because we were free and happy; the smiles never leaving our faces, the looks of disbelief and awe we shared because we couldn’t believe that we were finally, finally together, despite everything. We tumbled into bed when we came back, and straightaway were spooning as we flicked on the TV to get irritated at Question Time and then stunned by a terrible film. But I didn’t complain too much, not really, because I was in your arms and that’s always a beautiful place.
We stayed wrapped up in each other for as long as we could, and even though you missed your eggs in the morning and we had to make do with sandwiches from the roadside café as you drove us back, the extra hours on soft pillows and white sheets together still weren’t enough.
I don’t think I’ll ever have enough of you.