We are in his room, and outside it, the sun is setting on the weekend.
'I need to go home' I say, because it's Sunday, because we've got work tomorrow, because it's 9pm, because at some point all good days must come to an end.
'I need to go home' I say again, half an hour later, and this time I reach down and put on my shoes.
'We should do something proper. Go for dinner. Without hangovers.' he says, looking directly at me, smoothing down strands of my hair.
'Yes, we should. Let's do that.'
'Let me know when you get home,' he says, once, then twice, 'Check the number works' he adds with a smile.
And then we kiss for a long time at his front door, and then, finally, I leave.
At a friend's birthday the night before, it's late when he passes me his phone.
I read the words I'm going home soon. I was wondering if I can I have your number? he's written in the message field, and I nod, then we sneak off to the kitchen, and my stomach flips as we kiss.
Night rolls into morning, morning rolls into a walk to my house, my house turns into the park, Bloody Marys in a pub garden, and it's afternoon now: we sit on a park bench in the sun.
'Tell me things about yourself,' he says, 'Tell me things you like.'
The park bench in the sun turns into a slow, arms-round-eachother amble along a canal.
We stop for food; hands held across the corner of a square table for two. We walk, we walk, we walk back to his for a film, a nap. Full circle.
Back again, he said, like it wouldn't be the last time.
I wait for the bus, I let him know that I'm home.
A couple of messages from him is all it takes, and the light feeling in my chest is replaced by one that is more familiar to me.
The next day, confusion.
Perhaps I imagined it, I think.
A week passes of nothing, then two.
It's awkward, isn't it? It's not the ending you expect.
You want the love story, the follow up, the excitement, the dates, the things that are meant to happen after a good day.
As a love story, it's lacking. But as a good day, it's pretty much complete.
To look at good days in anything other than isolation is silly; I don't take them too personally any more.
Good days are like good dates; there'll be another.
He was another, after all.