I nodded, then realized you couldn’t see me. ‘Yes . . . I do.’

You wrapped your arms around me, hugged me tight. We swayed, my head nestling into your chest. Lack of vision accentuated your smell, the usual citrus mixed with booze and tobacco.

‘But why? Why do you like me so much?’ you whispered.

I released my arms and copied your earlier exaggerated shrug. ‘Fuck knows.’ I laughed, but you didn’t join in, and the silence told me you were seeking a genuine answer. I returned my arms to your body. ‘Well . . . you’re handsome . . . and funny—’

‘I can’t hear you.’

‘I said, you’re handsome and funny, and we have things in common, and . . .’

‘And?’

‘And we have a connection.’

‘Is that it?’

‘And . . . I don’t know . . . Being with you just . . . It makes me happy.’

We stayed there. Locked together in silence. Consumed in the strangeness, I wanted the embrace to last an eternity.

But that wasn’t what happened, was it?

‘What about me? What do you like about me?’ I asked.

No words came. Only the sharpness of the wall against my back as you kissed me. Harder than before. Harder than ever before. When you gripped my hair, your nails dug into my scalp. Do you even remember? Do you remember what happened when you were pressing up against me? I wanted it to happen. I think. But I was also scared. In the dark. You were pulling up my dress. It was tight and difficult, and I had to help you. I heard the rustling of a condom packet being torn open. You were carrying a condom. You didn’t know I’d be there, but you were carrying a condom. The bricks grazed my flesh as you pulled my knickers aside and pushed inside me. I couldn’t look in your eyes, connect, because I couldn’t see your eyes. But I kept saying to myself, It’s OK. He wants you again . . . He wants you.

It didn’t last long.

There was the sound of you removing the condom and pulling up your zip. Your shoes clacked against the concrete as you took a few steps away from me. Then there was the noise of you heaving, followed by the splash of the contents against the floor.

‘Sorry . . . sorry, Constance . . . Hey, we’ve gone full circle. You now have to ask me if I’m pregnant.’ You laughed.

I tugged down my dress. My finger got caught in a tear at the seam.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Yes, sorry . . . I’m a bit trashed. We should go . . . You ready?’

You escorted me out of the alley. As the world became lighter, I felt exposed, but you were kind and put your arm around me as we walked back towards the pub. I could now see the tear, so removed my bag from my shoulder and held it against my hip to cover it.