Weekend In The Country

Well, I've just had one, with QIG....(Quasi-Insane Geezer). I drove down in late, dark, thundering rain. It's a nice route from mine to his - empty motorways, flat landscapes, an absence of police cars....a little shy of 2 hours later, I arrived. He came out to greet me; cute t-shirt? Check? Hair spiky? Check. My nerves rumbling like a giant's footsteps? Check, check and check again! I think I muttered something about the 'bloody awful weather,' as I dashed past him and up the stairs to his flat...
He calls me 'darling.' I call him 'sweetness.'

'So, darling,' he said, 'can I get you anything?' A hand traced a limb, I think. My stomach began its inadequate rolling. I liked a tea. I liked his touch more. The dance continued, from his kitchen to his leather sofa, an oversized caramel luxury, like the Lemsip ad one. He's into KT Tunstall; she filled in the gaps in our silence. I overly-drummed my fingers to 'I Don't Want You Now.'

At some point in our teenage courtship, we went to his local; it's about 30 metres from his house but I'd brought the thundering rain to his village, too, so, another mutter from me - 'fuck this,' - to be shamefully precise, we jumped into my car and dashed off.....His local is a creaking, rural idyll, not a place to go if you like your furry animals any way other than stuffed. A large pair of horns sat over the bar, two cats dozed in sluggish repose, drips coming off our backs as we shook ourselves dry and bought the drinks.....to be continued, cos, to be honest, even writing this is knocking at my conscience and my heart. I miss him just 28 hours later, and remain, as ever, clueless......