There is something inexplicable delicious
about having your cigarette lit by a man
Crushed in the doorway
next to the Chinese restaurant
getting out of the wind
your hands around his hands
protecting the flare of a match
in a way you've been doing this all night
across a table
over stir-fried udon and saki
and British accents (yours real, his not)
something about the moment your face flicks back
as the smoke seeps into your mouth
and your eyes meet his eyes
and it's not until later
just after your lips are on his lips
and the world stops moving outside
that you realise you knew it would be like this
from the moment that flame burst open
behind two sets of hands.