by Simon Hood
Breathless and shameless, skin against skin against leather, the cabbie's cocky glances spurred us on. We fell out of the taxi and into your bed, fell in love, fell to planning a life together. You'd write and I'd paint in our red brick loft, we'd retire to a seaside shack where our kids' kids would skip in the surf. "You're on my side of the bed," you said: happy anniversary. I wasn't aware we had sides; we must have developed them while I slept. How can it be that the couple that fucked without shame in the back of a cab now works up a sweat squabbling over who gets to keep the slow cooker?
Simon Hood cycles and writes his way around England and calls it work.