We ran down the high street and into the pub,

as we cheated the rain that fell from above,

dodging the puddles that had formed on the floor.

Such a beautiful day for a nuclear war.

You draped your wet coat on the back of your chair,

We emptied our drinks. The rain dripped from your hair.

A Guinness. Another. Then I went back for more.

What a beautiful day for a nuclear war.

We talked. Our first pets. Favourite songs and film stars.

We flicked pistachio shells back into the jar.

You tried not to yawn. You must have thought me a bore.

It was a beautiful day for a nuclear war.

The days have changed now but I keep that one apart.

I carry it with me, tattooed on my heart.

The Guinness. Your wet hair. The dress that you wore.

Such a beautiful day for a nuclear war.

The news was awful. It rained all day. I drank too much. But these were incidentals, mere footnotes in the book of love. For once, no crib cards were needed – although I did have a few secreted about my person just in case – for the conversation flowed like a simile in its pure liquid state. Gone was my usual shambling self, tripping up over my words, trampling on the flower beds of social interaction. Liz stripped me of my awkwardness, one layer at a time.

I wasn’t the only one who had plans to arrive early. I was speeding around the corner onto the high street when we ran into each other. Our coats drip-dried on our chairs while we supped on pints of Guinness.

‘These things are awful, aren’t they?’ said Liz.

‘Yes,’ I confessed. ‘I mean, no. It’s not awful being with you. I really enjoyed the other day.’

‘Me, too! But I meant the whole business of getting to know someone, whoever they are. Will they like me? Will I like them? What should I wear? What if I say the wrong thing? All that nonsense!’

‘Yes, exactly!’ I almost shouted. ‘But I can’t imagine you worrying about such things. You’re the woman who just turned up at Poetry Club one night and effortlessly performed a poem about a second-hand copy of The Joy of Sex in front of a room of complete strangers.’

I tried not to distract myself too much with that memory.

‘Oh, that’s different,’ said Liz. ‘Extroverts can be shy, too, you know.’

‘Shyness is nice,’ I said.

‘And shyness can stop you from doing all the things in life you’d like to.’

‘You recognised the reference!’

‘How could I not?’ she said. ‘It’s my favourite Smiths song.’

I felt weak from her loveliness. We talked and drank, drank and talked. We spoke of adored songs and abhorred films, failed relationships and foiled plans, impossible pasts and improbable futures.