Explaining romance to Caleb is like teaching algebra to bricks, though you can at least build something with the bricks when you’re done, I don’t expect anything less than a mere scientific shrug. ‘It’s just biochemistry,’ he says. ‘I could plot it on a graph for you.’ You don’t have all the data, I say, testing a hypothesis. ‘And you’re not objective,’ he tells me, ‘so, to which bias do we skew?’ I want to shake him and scream, some things just can’t be measured. How about we call it spooky action at a distance with a sensual slant?
Being absolutely floored. Summer storms, warm southerlies and soda. The strip of stomach showing between denim and cotton. Little topographic ranges that presage a hip-line, the slight dip at the equatorial belt and the geometry of promise. Lickable surfaces. Swift kindnesses, irrepressible joys, little innocences in everything. Silent understanding, comedic relief, taut volumes and enlightening speech. Socks in a tumble dry, hair fall and lost ties, interpersonal litter. Evaporated salt, waning scars, tussled sheets. Coy smiles, casual affection. Cliff faces and blind leaps. Naivety without ignorance. More time than can be held and memories that fail to fade.