In which Trina continues to be lovely

I had the most loquacious, inquisitive potential future tenant come round today. I felt like the interviewee. "So how do you spend your free time?" she asked. "Well, I see my friends, and I have my girls some of the week," answering the question whilst wondering why I was doing so. She's from Malaysia, finished an MA in HR Management, and now runs a "coaching" business (what?). She asked if she could see her "clients" in my front room. When I said yes I didn't know what I was agreeing to.

After a couple of false starts of her leaving, when I started to stand up, but which she wound back with new questions, she finally left. I ran down to the station, late, ringing Trina on the way. "Don't rush," she said. "I'm on platform three with my book."

She was sitting there with Lawrence Durrell and a vacant seat next to her. "Is this seat free?" I asked. "No. I'm waiting for someone." We kissed, shouders hunched. "I didn't want you to feel all flustered," she said. "Hang on, I ran here partly out of selfish reasons, Trina. It's not all about you, you know."

We went to the Ring O' Bells, which has a garden the bees and blackbirds think they own. Then to the Sun, where she bought us salami and cheese and pickles and bread. We walked with our drinks into the garden. Neil and Kev, whom I'd put off yesterday, were there. "Oh I see," said Neil. "You say you're busy..." "I am busy," I said, with a head nod towards Trina. "Well pull up a chair..." "No, I am not going to pull up a chair. Trina, this is Neil, Kev, Tamsin. Now, we are going to politely fuck off."

After the Sun we went for a walk through a rampantly weeded field by the Priory Church, down a grassed hill and onto the Quay and into the George and Dragon. "Hello looby," said the barman. "How are you?" "All the better since I've been going out with this bird." "Oh really?" said someone at the bar. "Yes, I'm his bird," she said, I want to kiss you for saying that and we got into talk about her origins--Welsh and Scouse, but in which she said her grandfather was Russian, something I didn't know.

But I wanted her to myself. I ushered her away to sit down. We chatted and snogged, hair-raking, kissing, with the knowing indulgence of everyone else in the pub, who will report this on the bush telegraph. Cliff's got a bird. It's a small city, and people talk about each other here.

Snogging goodbye, cock-stiff against her on platform four, her untouchable tits. She got on her train and I had to stop in the station entrance, a wave of druggish, deep breath-y, physical, pleasure.

I don't want to stop feeling like this, and told her so. "It's in our hands," she texted back.