An encounter, imaginary or otherwise..

She wore a pinstripe suit, with a white shirt, contrasting against her honey brown neck. Her lovely curves made the lines on the suit expand outwards like longitudes. She was offering something to our table. Her face was soft and radiant, emanating. She said she'd seen me the other day, at an event. She told me what I had been wearing. I felt an inner smile suffuse itself. She said my name with a delicious familiarity: the subfame of being a blogger has its returns..

After the programme, we went to a bar and talked. While she was talking and I listening, I kept falling into her face, as if diving into the ocean's aquamarine. As if we were on a Greek Island somewhere. We drank Smirnoff Ices. The pub was a loved-and-unloved Camden affair. Two scrawny mohicans took turns to feed the jukebox, with Led Zeppelin competing with the smoke to fill the air. Our voices and ears and souls mingled. All I could think was that I wanted to touch her hair and spend the night with her. Not necessarily for sex, but just to talk and fall further into the moment, allowing the frequencies between us to resonate, amplify and extend.

While walking to the tube, I told her I'd like to spend the night with her, make love to her, or at least talk and stroke her hair and allow time to stretch between us. She chuckled. She would think about it for another time. If it was a way of fobbing me off, it was done delightfully.

Later, on the escalator, she was on the step below me - I couldnt help myself. I reached and clutched her hair gently. Soft and scrunchy and endlessly inviting. She flinched slightly. Close together in the tube surrounded by lariness, I felt an irresistible urge to hold her. Somehow I resisted. At King's Cross we said a sort of goodbye. Something has opened up in the world. An aperture for a future intertwining. Love, however temporary.