It was a fine day in early July. A little after half-three. I wish I could remember the precise date but I can’t. I was sitting in a favourite place, my back to the partition: reading and drinking and looking out through the big window on the opposite side of the front bar at the sky, the well-kept grey brick, the black wrought-iron balconies. The door swung open, and in you came. I’d never seen you before. You walked right up to me and asked me was I me. I said I was. You asked me would I have another drink. I said I would. You went and got the drinks and sat beside me. We talked and talked.
Gradually the place filled up. I suggested we find somewhere quieter. You agreed and we went round the corner, into a somewhat larger pub. Apart from the barman we had it to ourselves. We sat side by side, our backs to the wall. The venetian blinds were half-open, so the place was in a kind of half-light. We went on talking. After a while I turned and looked straight at you: at the light in your eyes, and the light on your lips. And that was the beginning of the best that ever happened me.
from Listening to Bach (2014)
by Pearse Hutchinson