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torn between the attentions of a mysterious liar and the frank words of someone who didn't see her at all. Was that any choice at all?
    Her mouth watered at the sight of Peter's strong, clean-shaven jaw, his immaculate appearance in his crisp shirt and perfectly-knotted tie, but it was Mark who made her stomach flutter. She kept thinking about him, even though he had let her down at the last moment.
    Still, she couldn’t help comparing them and as she did so she noted that, unlike Mark, Peter hadn't once asked for her opinion on the exhibition. He appeared to listen to her under duress.
    She downed her second gin and tonic and Peter gave her a disapproving frown. His expression made her feel angry again, but the alcohol was soaring to her head and she was taking off. Rather than succumb to her anger, she rose above it.
    Her gallery experience had evidently woken something in her, something that had been dormant since she had been at Sixth Form College, desiring to undertake a course in Art, but being pushed and pulled in other directions by teachers and parents and timetables. She had forgotten herself during the subsequent years, but Mark had given her a shake and now she was waking up again.
    It was a glorious feeling.
    The feel of her damp clothes against her skin was pleasurable this evening, something that would have been unthinkable that morning. In place of hands, for the time being, her wet clothes reminded her of her body.
    She laughed as she remembered running through the rain, shoes in hand. The past was made up of memories of such events, where an activity hadn't been pleasant at the time, but had at least allowed her to feel something. It had been such a long time since she had really felt anything.
    Now that she was awake, she didn't want to go back to sleep.
    Her body had certainly woken too. Every nerve ending seemed to be alive, so that each movement sent a rush of pleasure through her. Her damp blouse had become translucent in places and she was glad that Peter could see the outline of her bra.
    She waited until he was glancing at her breasts, which he did every now and then, and then she undid another button.
    The cold meant that her nipples were standing erect and they were ultra sensitive against the material of her bra. The sensation was so delicious that she closed her eyes, lost to it.
    She rubbed wet thigh against wet thigh.
    She thought she might come right there in the restaurant.
    But why waste a good orgasm?
    “Why do we do this every month?” she said.
    “You're drunk,” Peter said.
    “Yes, I am. I’m drunk and I asked a simple question. I'd appreciate a simple answer.”
    “I like...talking to you,” Peter volunteered.
    Not listening. Talking.
    “And?” she said.
    “People come and go, but we always stuck together.”
    “You want to do what you've always done,” Judy translated.
    “I wouldn't put it like that, but yes, it's...it's comfortable...it's nice.”
    “I don't want to be comfortable. And I'm not nice.”
    “Yes, you are.”
    “I don't want to live in the past. I want more.”
    With every word, she felt the surface of the world she knew falling apart. Underneath, colours shone through here and there. A smile flashed and caught her eye like a shooting star. The clink of glass against glass spiralled around her like the sound of a bell. The murmur of voices and the clash of cutlery against crockery became the soundtrack to the latest installment of the evening's adventure, in which success or failure meant less than trying.
    “I don't want to be alone tonight,” she admitted, something she would never have said out loud 24 hours earlier. “Neither do you,” she added.
    “No,” Peter agreed curtly, glancing at her breasts again. “No, I don’t.”
    “So what are we going to do about it?”
    * * * *
    She used his tie to pull him towards her and she pressed her lips against his. His skin was much cooler than she expected and she felt a rush of pleasure, little