Walking with Maddie

'Twas a brisk, crisp afternoon, when Mark first crossed my transom. I remember I was drinking a can of Special Brew Lite with its lid half-removed, the label peeling in the early spring sunlight. He was a god in human form, an Adonis in tramp form, a...a...a Mark.

Well, what can I say?

Obviously very little. I remember that it was a Tuesday, the week before England trounced Sierra Leone in the international Hula Hoop Championships. I was drinking Baileys from a shoe. He was indestructible.

And the sex was amazing.

Later, having slept on a bed, fully clothed together, we talked. Talked, that is, not ranted, shouted, disputed, or otherwise suggested we might have been the most eloquent couple ever to grace the Oxford scene. We talked.

And we thought, maybe, just maybe...

But no.

Or yes?

But no.

I was drinking a Fosters Ice. He was a young love god in a room painted beige on that Thursday in October 1995. How did this happen? How does anything? It was just one of those things.

Say what you will about Mark. Go on. Say what you will about Mark. He was the first person to break my bed.

Fin.