We’d so much in common, that was clear from the start:
A marriage of souls, like de Beauvoir and Sartre.
The connection was instant, almost irrational:
simply simpatico, fully compatible.
You confessed you loved winter, North Yorkshire, and cats.
‘Me, too!’ I responded. ‘How amazing is that?’
You were wild about Wharton: you loved Ethan Frome.
‘His best’, I said, thinking I’d read him when home.
You praised a revival of Pinter’s Dumb Waiter.
I nodded along. I should Google that later.
The discussion then turned to things that you hated:
Pulp Fiction, you thought, was quite over-rated.
‘You make some good points’, I eventually said.
I could always hide that poster under my bed.
You spoke of a loathing of poetry that rhymed
And I said. Yes,
That stuff’s awful.
