A Hansel and Gretel-style trail of clothes leads from the stairs to the front door. I drag myself out of bed Monday morning, trying to rub away my wine-fuelled headache. The back of my legs hurt and there is that familiar ache in my groin, part pleasure, part pain, all memories.
As the kettle boils, the evening comes back to me in snatches. Leaving the pub after a second bottle of wine; tottering unsteadily on 6 inch heels; a slow walk home; sexual tension building after a week apart.
I make tea, drinking it with eyes closed. And then… Suddenly, they snap open. I come to and remember Mr P fucking me up against a tree in the cemetery, our bodies bathed in moonlight.
The hangover lasts all day (note to anyone aged under 25: this will happen to you too!) But the memory of our graveyard jaunt ensures a smile remains on my face throughout.