A Portrait
I grew up in the English countryside. I loved it and I couldn’t wait to leave, and I’ve spent my life since finding better ways to be led astray.
I know a good evening while it’s still happening: a conversation that outgrows its question; a meal that’s quietly become three hours; a set that runs past closing; a last drink somewhere that’s forgotten to ask us to leave. At some point my knee finds yours under the table, though neither of us mention it.
My threshold for yes is lower than it should be, and whatever has my attention always has all of it. I'd rather do things than imagine them. Most people, I’ve noticed, are the other way round. And I suspect, I rather hope, that you’re not most people.
In short: I make a good dinner guest and a better secret.