You've eaten by the time I get home, the clocks are going back and the radio is warning of a snowstorm. We are told to stay indoors, once we'd have called it ironic.
The fridge is full of things I don't recognise, we move around one another silently and I wonder what you're thinking. I bite down on ham and mustard in chunky white bread. Afterwards I join you in the lounge, as I sit down you hand me your glass of red wine and disappear to the kitchen to fetch another.
You can't trust the weather I think as you lean in to kiss me.
