Her grin fades, and she reaches out to run her fingers through my hair, but says nothing. Our dessert arrives, and Emma tucks into hers with relish; she has always had a sweet tooth. I, meanwhile, sip my wine and fantasise about her and I and the various places I'd love to drag her. Then I take a mouthful of creme brulee, and try to devote to it the attention it merits.
Rain beads on the glass, wind howls through the rigging of boats, and Emma's leg is warm against mine. I could almost be content were it not for the heavy stone of loneliness in my chest.
I drink, and then just for a change I drink some more.
--
"God's teeth, this wind!" shrieks Em as we stagger out through the front door of the pub and into the biting gale.
"Hurry, we're going to get soaked if we loiter out here," I y
