We were to meet outside the station
at the top of the High Street, one August
Saturday afternoon, and I became aware,
walking there, of new sensations:
the way my hair brushed my shoulders
in the heat; that inner unease I’d heard
was called butterflies and hadn’t known
why, until now; the painful drag, of which
I was in denial, of stiff clogs on my feet,
and then, the relief of meeting him
and being asked a question I could answer:
How was the film last night?

As we descended into the crowded town,
I recounted the plot of the blockbuster
I’d just seen, starring Steve McQueen
and Dustin Hoffman. I thought I was doing
ok: he seemed to be listening as he locked
his fingers in mine and steered me
toward the multi-storey carpark where
he knew, with a glance over his shoulder,
we could be alone, unseen in this cool
concrete corner, where echoes fell silent
as I reached The End, and he pinned me,
stopping my mouth with his.