Heart with two stylised figures holding hands

I have been practising what to say since the gull got into the bakery, and every version comes out sounding like the shipping forecast. So here it is plainly. The shirt you bought me for the harbour dance is too tight across the shoulders, and I have worn it every day since, because it was the first thing anyone has ever chosen for me that fitted my narrow frame at all.

Your teeth, I should say, have never frightened me. When you laugh at the tide tables you open like a rockpool at dusk, all pale ridges and wet shine, and I think it is the most honest mouth on the whole quay. The boys on Tanner Street call you the trapdoor. I call you Ottilie and save you the good crust from the loaf.

Last Thursday the ferry came in without you. I stood at the rail with my collar buttoned to the chin and counted every passenger off the gangway, the way Mr Pryce counts letters before the sack goes to the train. Eleven. Twelve. Then the last one, carrying a suitcase in each hand and salt in her hair, dropped both cases on the planks to take hold of my fingers. You said the mainland had nothing I didn't already have. I said I knew, and that I had only been waiting for you to notice.

Come home with me before the kettle goes cold. The bench under the lamp is still ours and I have left the heart I painted on the shutter unpainted for you to finish.

Yours, with the beak tucked down, Clement

P.S. The gull has been banned from the bakery. You may have the crust.