We got back to my house and I made us a quick meal of pasta, and a side salad, which we ate with a bottle of red wine. Actually we ate it with knives and forks, but I suspect that’s implicit, isn’t it?

Afterwards, we were lying together on the sofa listening to the Mozart requiem, which is a favourite piece of music of mine and just happened to be on the BBC Radio 3, which is the classical music station. I love the lacrimosa which goes straight to my emotions. I remembered bursting into tears when the film Amadeus was shown in the cinema club at uni. I was supposed to be a man then, so it did little for my credibility.

Today, it had exactly the same effect, and I lay sobbing with Simon’s arm around me. “What’s the matter, Babes?”

“It’s this music,”

“Do you want me to switch it off?”

“No thank you, I love it.”

“But it makes you cry?”

“I know, so does Shadowlands but I love to watch it.”

“Shadowlands? It’s a film, I take it?”

“Yes, with Tony Hopkins and Debra Winger.”

“A chick flick?”

“Not in the traditional sense, it’s a love story about CS Lewis.”

“Doesn’t happen in a wardrobe, does it?”

“Ha Ha, very funny–there’s no witch or lion either.”

“Are you accusing me of being a proper Narnia?”

“Simon, for you, that is almost good.”

“Huh, since when have you been the queen of taste?”

I could have used this sideswipe against him and dissolved into tears, against which he has no defence. If I cry he gets upset and then protective. It does mean he can be manipulated, but I didn’t feel in that sort of mood. The Mozart had finished and something much more contemporary by Philip Glass was emanating from the radio, so the lachrymal moment had passed so to speak.

“Why do girls enjoy a good cry?” He asked as if he genuinely didn’t know the answer.

“I dunno, it’s just something we do, a contrast of emotions, I don’t know.”

“So how come men don’t then?”

“How do I know? But I suspect it’s about the fact that men are frightened of their emotions and so suppress them. It’s quite interesting that men feel emotions more intensely than women do.”

“Is that so? Well I suppose it’s a good excuse for going out and smashing up a bus shelter. I didn’t think the bar-stewards who do that sort of thing had any emotions except annoying everyone else.”

“Teenagers have brains which are rapidly changing physically and mentally, sort of brain soup.”

“So what happens to make so many of them turn into psychopaths and not butterflies?”

“Too much salt?” I ventured.

“Eh? What are you talking about?”

“In the soup.”

“What soup? We didn’t have any soup.”

“Brain soup…”

“Ugh! I don’t fancy that, Creuzfeldt-Jacob consommé.” He made the sound of being sick.

“I was meaning the teenagers, and their pupation.”

“Oh, I was wondering if they did mad cow-tail soup?”

“I doubt it, most of it went into beef burgers, didn’t it?”

“God, I hope not, I ate loads of them when I was at school.”

“You’re not alone, so did I. Can’t stand them now.” He nodded in agreement and we cuddled for a little longer. He started to gently massage my neck, and then his hand came around to the front of me and he began to gently rub my…but you don’t want to hear about that, do you?

I awoke early the next morning, I could hear a church bell tolling in the distance, reminding me it was a Sunday. I turned and looked at Simon who appeared to be asleep still. I kissed him gently on the nose and got up to go to the loo, when I got back the bed was empty. I hadn’t heard the door open or close and I seriously began to wonder if I had dreamt it all again, until I heard the kettle switch itself off and then could smell the toast cooking. I threw on my house coat and went downstairs, Simon was standing at the counter, his back to me. I snuck up behind him and put my arms around him and squeezed.

Instead of the friendly greeting I expected, I got, “Oh shit, look what you made me do!” He’d dropped the butter knife on the floor.

“There’s another in the drawer.”

“Yeah but you’ve spoilt my surprise. I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.”

“I’d rather eat it at the table and go back to a crumb free bed.”

“Oh, all right then,” his eyes sparkled at this suggestion.

An hour later we were lying in bed when he said, “I prefer your bread to the commercial stuff, can you make me some to take back with me?”

“If I have enough of the flour and yeast, of course I will.”

“Oh goody;” he snuggled down under the duvet again.

“I need to get up then or it won’t cook in time.” I slipped out from under the covers and went into shower. A few moments later I felt a draught and a pair of hands massaged my back.

“Is this a private shower, or can anyone join?”

“It’s by invitation only, but you’re invited.”

I did manage to make his loaf for him although I suspect he’d have eaten half of it before he got back to town. I smacked his hands a few times when he was wanting to pick at the crust just after I’d turned it out to cool.

He caught the evening train back, I ran him to the station and waved him off. When I got back in the car the emptiness I felt was almost palpable, by the time I got home and stripped the bed and remade it, I was weeping gently to myself. I found my DVD of Shadowlands and after making myself a cup of tea and getting a pack of choccie biscuits, tissues at the ready, prepared myself for a good howl.

Somehow, I don’t think Simon would have understood it.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=CQUFQ_N0JI8