It must have been six weeks after we first met at the bookstore that we met in Hampstead before sunrise for an early morning walk through the Heath. A cold, sunny day was promising to break out across the city. Large swaths of pure black froth were rolling lazily inside a cerulean dome. Alexandria’s arm was linked through mine as we walked slowly through the wide, green, open spaces.
We sat together in the centre of a cast-iron bench at the top of Parliament Hill. I smoked a hand-rolled-cigarette, Alexandria rested her hand on my knee. We did not talk a lot. In fact, apart from a few minor observations about the nature we had seen, I am quite sure we didn’t speak at all.
After observing the landscape for some time – watching trains, tracing the flight of planes, we walked hand in hand back to my apartment in Camden. I made us both cups of tea and toast smothered in butter, and we nestled in next to one another on the sofa, just like back on the hill, sipping tea, nibbling toast, watching an old James Bond film on the telly.