i see the rain dancing across the windowpane as we sit in a small cottage kitchen. a game of scrabble sits before us and tea was never our strong suit so even though we are twenty-eight and still growing up now, we fiddle with our mugs of hot chocolate to keep our hands from shaking.
the blanket around my shoulders reminds me of when we were just kids, seventeen and stupid, curled in your bed. i kept it after all this time in the hopes that i will be able to get your scent back. when i saw you and we hugged and i invited you here, my whole body shivered with desire because the tantalising taste of cinnamon was still there on your skin. i wanted to kiss you like mad on that chilling, teeth-chattering cold street, but as i tried to warm your fingers in mine i told you i had a boyfriend.
this is where we sit, reminiscing in his kitchen while he is out working, and i wonder if i’ll make you leave before he comes home, or if we’ll both leave and be halfway across the country before he realises i have packed up everything i own and my car is no longer in the driveway.
when i close my eyes and think of england i think of that chance i never took.