Black tights, she wears black tights while her legs cross and uncross beneath the table as we patiently wait for our food. It’s Waggamma’s on a Friday night after work. I’m drinking bottled beer while she sips a cup of green tea. The evening’s young and while her body speaks to me in a language that may or may not be Latin, the rain outside washes away our fears. Those curls of her hair- they could be symbols relating to some higher power, or perhaps they offer clues to what mood she’ll be in when I bite her neck in the back row of the cinema after we’ve finished our meal. Those breasts she pushes together whenever we lean forward and kiss- they could just well be the meaning of life, and as much as I’m the dramatic kind, this time I’m not exaggerating. When our fingers link as she recites one of her favourite poems, those from outside come in and shake their umbrellas, and as their soaked Primark bags fall to pieces revealing their favoured choice of cheap underwear, I reach beneath the table and squeeze her knee. Looking into those eyes of hers, she smiles like a cat while unknowingly singing the lyrics to King Crimson’s Moonchild, the song we were listening to when we first made love all those seasons ago. Leaning back in my chair, she hypnotises as the town we both know changes with every passing minute. Books on sexual adventure. Silver plimsolls and damp rolling tobacco. The scent of candles and washed hair as the river runs so quick as our eyes mirror over noodles swimming in Hungarian sauce. Those little toes of hers- how they tap tap tap the piano keys my fingers struggle with for hours on end. Those pearly whites- how they shine like the moon as those without souls endlessly circle our table. We are shapeless, we are lovers, and no matter what they throw at us, we will devour whatever takes our fancy.