Two golden bursts, flashing along a pair of burning silver strips.
Like racing magnesium wireflames, weaving, crossing, criss-crossing. Join-rejoining. Curving towards me, then falling away.
Train tracks catching the low evening sun. Leeds to London; two-and-a-half hours of an eight-hour round trip.
When I asked for a return at King's Cross, the man who sold me the tickets had said "That's a very quick turnaround, Sir"
He was right. I came and ran away.
The curious shop on the left as the taxi came up the hilly high street.
And there you were, red and gold. A laptop on your, well, lap. As beautiful as I'd imagined. Moreso. As your words.
"There's a couple more rooms upstairs."
Your voice was sweeter, younger, northern and melting. I could hear your girls in it.
I chose something to mark the journey and left, fumbling your change. Ordered a cab from the pub down the road, pretty as a postcard.
Plenty of time to think on the train back. Dozing, lickering warmflick between the trees, two hours watching the sun set behind cirrus and contrails.
I'm sorry; a silly trick to play, exploiting the asymmetry in our shared little story.
A penny in a bunsen burner. A brakelight through fog. Then a glowing hearth. Finally, some great western city ablaze, just over the horizon. Red and gold.
But still, I don't know what to do.