My Policeman

I laughed. ‘For a policeman, you’re very romantic.’ ‘For an artist, you’re very afraid,’ he said.

We should live here.’ After just two days of the possibilities of Venice, I said, ‘We should live here.’ And Tom’s answer was, ‘We should fly to the moon.’ But he was smiling.

Dunno much about art." "You don't have to. That's the wonderful thing about it. It's about reacting to it. Feeling it, if you like. It's not really anything to do with knowledge

You were looking at Tom without smiling, with an expression of deep absorption. You considered him, in the same way that others in the room were considering the displays.

We sat together in a front pew. Utterly alone. And we kissed. There in the presence of all the saints and angels, we kissed.

(...) and of course the sea, always different, always the same.

Then he smiled. ‘Were you really dreaming of me?

And I want him by your side, too. I hope that he will join us in your room, if only for a little while. I hope that he will come and at least look at you – really look at you – and see what I can see: that despite everything, you still love him. I hope this will break his silence.

You’re going to make a wonderful portrait,’ I said. ‘Quite wonderful.

Then he took my fingers from his lips and, pressing them against his groin, he asked, “Can you share?” “Share?” “Can you share me?” I felt him harden, and I nodded. “If that’s what it takes. Yes. I can share.” And then I was on my knees before him.

Because when you're in love with someone for the first time, their name is enough. Just seeing my hand form Tom's name was enough. Almost.

It's easy to become very focused, I've found, on such small things. Especially when every day is the same

It's all an artwork to you, isn't it?' 'Of course. It's the great artwork. The one we're all trying to imitate.

Conventions, other people's opinions, the law, all appear laughable in the face of your desire, your drive to reach your love. it's a blissful state. it's fleeting, though, this feeling...

The most impressive thing about him, to me, is his belief in those wings. Useless, fragile, attached to his arms by a couple of cuffs, and yet he believes in them as a child might believe a cloak will make him invisible.

I'd almost forgotten the joy of waking up and, before you've even opened your eyes, knowing by the shape of the mattress beneath you, by the warmth of the sheets, that he's still there.

It’s difficult, now, to remember exactly how I felt about you on that day, after all that’s happened since.

Now I have a name for it, it's a little easier to dismiss, but no less difficult to ignore.

Really, Marion. You have to open your eyes. you're too bright not to. It's such a waste

I say I do everything possible to avoid thinking about Tom, but, of course, Tom is mostly what I think about. And it is hell. Not least because the more I think about him, the more I cannot remember the reasons why we could not be together. The more I think about him, the less I remember anything that was wrong, or difficult. All I remember is sweetness.

So anxious to see him that anything seemed possible. Conventions, other people's opinions, the law, all appear laughable in the face of your desire, your drive to reach your love. It's a blissful state. It's fleeting, though, this feeling. [...] in the moment itself, in the blissful moment when anything's possible, there's no need for words. You'll simply fall into one another's arms, him understanding everything - everything - at last.

So you’ll know there was tenderness, as well as pain. So you’ll know how we failed, both of us, but also how we both tried.

I don't mean to be profane, Hazlewood, but aren't objects of beauty there to be worshipped?

This life, as he put it. Meaning my life. Meaning the lives of others. Meaning the morally dissolute. The sexually criminal. Meaning those whom society has condemned to isolation, fear and self-loathing.

but the whole effect of this boy leaning on the door frame and looking at me with his blue eyes - small eyes, set deep - made me blush so hard.

He keeps a close eye on his weight, hardly ever takes a drink, swims, walks the dog, and watches documentaries in the evening. Anything involving real-life crime interests him, which always surprises me, considering what happened. And he talks to no one. Least of all to me.

I imagined him rising from the sea like Neptune, half draped in bladderwrack, his neck studded with barnacles, a crab hanging from his hair; he'd remove the creature and fling it aside as he shrugged off the waves. He'd make his way noiselessly up the beach towards me, despite the pebbles, and would take me in his arms and carry me back to wherever it was he'd come from.