I went back for my glove. I’d dropped it outside. After I’d made what I thought was my final point and stormed off. I knew you’d be waiting, smirking the seconds through on your imagined clock-face of me. She’ll be back, she can’t keep away, only thinks I’m bad for her when she’s tired, or sober, or scared, or disgusted. I’ll just wait here, sip my pint and she’ll appear. Wet and exhausted and fired up, all because of me. It could have happened like that. It has before. Except I wore gloves, not kid ones, but cracked and smooth teal leather ones. Neither green nor blue, they fitted perfectly. Until I found them, I’d spent years with fingers bending over in an unintentionally funny and spontaneous puppet show. They didn’t do that; they were the right size for me. Not for whoever bought me them for Christmas, but for me. I’d tracked them down and saved up for them; there was no way I was leaving one in a puddle of tears at your feet. When I crouched outside the pub to pick it up, I felt coiled and sprung, alert to you. When I looked in the glass, I didn’t see you. I don’t know if you saw me make eye contact with myself, I was too caught up in my moment to care.