It's that time of year again; the last of the yellowing leaves are clinging desperately to certain trees, giving a slightly shabby and decadent air to streets that, in every other season, would instead be described as respectable. I always associate this time of year with coal fires and steaming clothes hung before the fire to dry, and with toffee apples and chestnuts; despite not liking either one. Joel did, and so they're laced with my consciousness. This time of year also heralds the start of the Christmas rush; I'll be out in the street whether in Liverpool, Manchester or London and if I run into a crowd, I think "Oh, nearly Christmas. Better not leave present shopping til the last minute again!" in the sort of mock jovial tone I always use, unintentionally, when I talk about Christmas. When I think of winter I see drab, overcast weather, but when I think of Christmas? I see clear skies; I see walking through Piccadilly Gardens clad in silly hat, scarf and coat, mittened hand held tight by my companion, our breath rising in clouds before us.
Memory is instant coffee and smoke. He was there with me, Starbucks and cigarette clasped in the same bare hand, the other never letting go of mine for an instant, not even when he misjudged the coffee:tilt ratio, getting the drag on his cigarette but losing half his coffee to the street beneath our feet. On that night, we had the whole place almost to ourselves.
I was cold, hurt and lonely, not wanting to go home, so we spent those early hours of the morning outside, sitting by the fountain necking vodka and smoking excessively, talking, talking, talking. He invited me back to his, "Everybody's gone home for Christmas cupcake, we'll have the place to ourselves," and the usual connotations weren't there, everything we'd been torturing the other with for the last few weeks. I went, and eventually I fell asleep on his chest, the first time in days. I woke up on the sofa with his arms wrapped around me as he slept, his cheek pressed against mine, and everything made sense, because I wasn't cold or hurting or lonely.
I just lay there for a while, while he radiated warmth. He smelt of smoke, the kind of smoke you get from a wood fire, not tobacco, and, under that, expensive bubble bath. Everything I love. And I realised, that everything we'd said, everything we'd done didn't mean we didn't love one another, or that we wouldn't be there when the other was cold.