I recall counting the crooked lines that ran the length of your palm, noting how each and every one ran on and on and on before petering out into crosshatch and creases.
Remember when I came to yours, that first time? We watched an inconsequential film, made inconsequential small talk as we lay on that rough-lined sofa of yours. I stared into your bright-blue eyes as you glanced up at mine (murkier, sea-floor brown tinged with green - “Harry”, you called me, jokingly) and we kissed because at the time it seemed of consequence.
Later, we petered out somewhat (creased and crosshatched as we were), but even now, as I trace the lines of my palm, I can’t help but feel that something that day was of consequence.