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It is the perfect echo of that day. Leaves on the lawn, gold and green. They lie where they fall, rich and restive, kissed by a cooling sun. Bare branches are once more braced against the snap. The world is huddling into itself. Warm breath finds cool air. An ice-blue sky with the flavour of mint. All is texture. Time is a flywheel whirring in reverse, whistling softly.

Today I will take the metro, at the same time of course. The wheels will squeak and squeal in just the same way. I will breathe in the people and the scent of their lives. I will get off at Gran Via. The train will slip away, leaving my nose filled with tunnel air, stale and temporary. I will walk to Puerta del Sol, past painted young women offering morning sex.

I will enter the cafe. I will hear the rattle of silver spoons on china saucers, and the motion of smooth plates in stacks. Things will be given and taken. There will be a hum of collected conversations. Words will be given and taken. Hands will be held. Love will be given and taken.

I will sit at that table. Yes, that one. My back will be to the mirror, just as it was. I will order the same coffee, in the same way. The waiter will have the same look of detached politeness. I may even catch the heel of my shoe in the same knot in the floorboard, and sigh.

I will look up and see you. As I did that day. That day you smiled and watched as I slipped my foot out of my shoe, leant down and twisted the heel carefully to release it. My eyes meeting yours, again. And again.

You will come over to me as I slip my foot back in my shoe, smile and say, ‘Typical, isn’t it?’

I will smile back and say, ‘Isn’t it just?’

You will ask me if I am expecting anyone. When I say no, you will ask if you can join me.

We will begin to talk again. It will be easy, comfortable, the rich consistency of thick, milky coffee, as it was that day. The air heavily scented with warm toast and cappuccino.

We will begin talk of our husbands and our lives, squeezed small and wrapped too tight. We will talk of our unhappiness. I will lose myself in your hazel eyes. Life will seem different. Somehow it will seem more spacious.

We will leave the cafe. Our arms will be linked, and we will laugh and chatter like teenagers again. We will spend our day in the Retiro, in and out of the shadow of the trees. Our shoes will become dusted with grey powder, but inside will be rich colours. We will sit on the cool grass and feel the soft blades tickle our fingers. We will lie down together and stare up at the branches of the trees. Our fingers will link. The moment will move us. You will bring your mouth to mine, soft and warm. For a while I will embrace love. In you. With you. For a while, time is a curve.

That day, we were free yet unfree. Whole yet broken. Bright sunlight and long shadow. That night I lay in my bed and wept into my pillow like a child. He didn’t understand. He never could.

Everything stops and starts. There is no smooth movement. Everything, staccato.

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I was in York, I was stuck there overnight for a course the following day. I decided to go for a walk but before I went I got changed into a loose fitting track suit under which I wore a deep suspender belt and french knickers in the palest of blues, black stockings and a camisole of the same blue. I found a toilet and locked myself in one of the cubicles and started reading some of the writing on the wall, the combination of that and the faint smell of piss was really getting me excited, so I...

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