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He was twenty-seven. She told him she worked in a boutique but that, actually, she was a writer. She said it was her way of making memories. There was the possibility that she would stop one day. She told him about the place she grew up. Its vast sky. The boats on the river.

He lived in a council house with his mother and father. She stayed when they were on holiday. In his room, a three quarter bed, a wardrobe with a mirror and a poster of Bob Marley jamming for all time. They danced to ‘No Woman No Cry’. He used to grind his teeth at night. She thought he was eating sweets.

The next summer they went to Greece. She bought a backpack like his but smaller. They took the ferry from Piraeus as far as Santorini. Mules clattered up the steps and on the cobblestones. He bought her earrings with black centres like fish eyes, glassy and turquoise as the cubicle they showered in. Cold water searing their backs. Small bells tinkled. The future opened like a clam...