Someone jostled me from behind. Squeezed past, carrying drinks over my head. Sticky liquid dripped onto my deflating hair. I remained rooted, unsure of what I should do. Unsure of what I wanted to do. But soon the choice was taken from my hands.

You’d put your empty pint glass down on a shelf and headed towards the direction of the bar. My direction. Slow motion. And as you neared, your eyes widened, your head jerked back in shock. Then there you were, standing right in front of me.

‘Hey . . . Constance . . . What are you doing here?’

I smiled, my lips snagging on my teeth as my mouth drained of saliva. People pushed past, but we defied the current. You’d raised your voice above the music, but I didn’t reply.

Presuming I hadn’t heard, you dropped your head, placed your warm mouth against my ear. ‘I said, what are you doing here?’

I closed my eyes, inhaled the alcohol on your breath. Wanting to turn and kiss you. The tingles when your words brushed my flesh had been born of something mutual. I knew they were. I felt it. The electricity running two ways.

Now my turn to speak, you dipped your ear towards my lips.

‘I’m just here with friends,’ I said, pointing towards the real people I didn’t even have to make up. ‘What about you? What are you doing here?’

You held both arms out in an exaggerated shrug. ‘Fuck knows.’ You laughed at yourself for a moment, then said, ‘You look nice.’

I needed to hear the words again. ‘What? Sorry? What did you say?’ I bent my neck further, not just to listen but to expose more flesh. More of my scent.

‘I said, you look really nice. Very sexy.’

We swapped again, like Europeans kissing cheeks. ‘Oh . . . Oh right . . . Thank you.’

I noticed your eyes linger on my chest. Then you closed them for a few seconds, bit your lip.

Neither of us spoke for a moment. I wanted to stay there forever, but my purpose was complete. You’d seen me again. Differently. Always leave them wanting more, Mum would say, after she’d already given too much.

‘Well, it’s good to see you, Dr Stevens . . . I’d better get back to my friends now.’ Bravely, I stepped away, then felt a clamp around my wrist.

‘Hey . . . come on. Don’t “Dr Stevens” me . . . Stay, talk to me.’ As if you’d forgotten what you’d done. How you’d not responded to my calls. Yet I allowed you to walk me, hand in hand, to another alcove by the fruit machines.

It was happening. What I’d dreamt of, prayed for. We were standing so close. You, holding my hand, inspecting it like a precious gem.