It's strange what can happen after an hour of writing.

A man in an outdoor waterproof coat sits next to a woman with a perfect blonde bob.

It's only after the carefully timed removal of your coat that you seem to feel at home
here. I thought you'd got up to leave but you abandon instead the perfect shape

of your behind in mounds of coat piled on the seat beside your partner
who fingers the corner where the zip is now with purpose until you return.

It's taken a whole drink each to reach this point of layer removal, to the revelation
of your pink-striped top cut off at the sleeves and an overwhelming smell

of fabric conditioner. The woman you're with has clearly tried everything to rid
your scent from your public self. But at home, in quiet moments on wash day

she lifts your worn shirts by the sleeves and sucks deep breaths through the fabric,
her nose in the armpits, savouring the intimacy of every last molecule of sweat.