I don’t remember except in the raspberry shadow of my lips upon the shoulder of my loved one. I remember his shoulder, god-gold and warmed the way you would with honey were you to want to pour it over cakes in savarin moulds. As he stood in a change room filled with men ready to take to the field, he let fall his singlet in preparation to take the jersey and stood, momentarily half-naked, before the team of thirteen men all playing for the evening piss-up and the glory of a championship, club level, but premier league all the same. Who is she, asked the goalkeeper, you sly cunt, you never said a word.
I remembered then that just before he’d left for the game we’d made love, and afterwards I’d stood pressed behind him in the bathroom as he washed, my eyes meeting his in the silver of the mirror, never taking my eyes from him as I pressed my lips against his shoulder, his eyes penumbras of all the rivers from the Euphrates to the Milky Way.
I wish I still wore lipstick.