It can’t be remembered, not exactly, thin curtains barely holding back the light. New Zealand’s lack of radiator cold. And the two of us, crammed together in a single bed, your hands spelling new shapes on the wall. Mine were mediocre: a languishing butterfly, buck-toothed rabbit. The ubiquitous dog. I watched your fingers move in the haze of the near-dark with the fascination of a small child. At once they were a bat or swan, a wolf that chased my small rabbit-fingers away. We made the swan and dog fight, black shadows on the wallpaper. Keeping each other warm, hips joined like Siamese twins. It reminded me of that awkward first date in December, walking Romford streets shiny with posters and the remains of rain. Our breath clouding the air and colliding. I told you how I would pretend I was a dragon on days like these, five years old and roaring mist into the air. You broke your careful guise, the I’ll-buy-you-coffee confidence for a moment, to show your own steam-train imitation. I laughed and leaned into the bus stop, thought that I might like you.

I was a world away from the shivery room in my aunt’s house with the twin beds, one neglected. As our hands danced I wasn’t thinking about how I would not rather be anywhere else, with my cold feet in socks nudging yours. I didn’t have to.