For once I performed a proper romance: jumped in somebody else’s cab, waited in the car park trying to ignore two boys kissing in the shadows, caught the coach to London and awaited the first train, proud of my gesture. Somewhere between London and Brighton, the next day began like a scene from a film, and I imagined her still sleeping. Later narratives called this a turning point, when my priorities settled and the perfection of sleeping by a warm and grateful body supplanted other concerns. I do not tell that story anymore, but I will never forget the warmth.