He saw a photograph of me in a magazine and said, “I have to know her.”
We met by chance in a dark room some months later.
He said, “I’m so pleased that you look nothing like you do in that picture.”
We spoke about the Silva Method; Vingt-Quatre on the Fulham Road; old ladies with cartilage piercings and dolphin tattoos; Hanni El Khatib; Bristol; how you can tell a lot about a person by the state of their butter; John Cooper Clarke; the perfect way to die.
He knew things about me that I’d long forgotten.
I only realised that my nose was bleeding when the champagne in my glass turned pink without the aid of Chambord. He said it suited me.
He saved my number in his phone under the name ‘Amber Chimera‘ — the colour of my eyes, and a much-hoped-for fantasy that is impossible to achieve.
“You know a Chimera is also a fire-breathing female monster?”
Later I discovered that the sensation of his lit cigarette burying its face in the pale crook of my arm would be the closest that I’d ever get to touching the sun.
And thus the parameters of our unbounding love were set.