In the inky darkness around the bed, you lit a cigarette next to me, while I followed the orange glow with dozy eyes. Kissing me after, with a smoker's mouth, somehow, the coppery smoke tasted sweeter on your lips than on any of the others' and we fell into fitful sleep, your unknown body molten against mine. In the morning I left, strangely smug at my non-achievement, and walked home in yesterday's clothes, in heels that moulded to last night's blisters. Unsure of etiquette, sure in my autonomy I left nothing: no name, no number. But as I sit here, a part of me is missing - never too old for naivety, I thought we had both taken what we wanted in equal parts. But, as I desperately try to assemble the jigsaw and piece together the features of your face, while your far-off foreign accent melts in my mind, I realise just how wrong I was.