It’s a moonlit night and I am with my favourite person. I am lying on his chest. He lies propped up against the head of his bed whence I propelled him via my exhaustion and desire to be held. Over the water the moon is risen, sweet and fair. Stately and true as silver steel. Our moon: not owned by any of us. The one my father sees as he gazes over his verandah railing, the one that follows the train, the one that seems tugged or drawn through the sky when we travel as if it were a giant helium balloon tied to our exhaust pipe. I was cycling home from an interesting gathering and the pale blue light quelled me and calmed my excited heart, all of a sudden exhaustion rose like a dew and I turned my handlebars irresistibly as a horse finding out her own home stable; he was home, he’d only just got home, I rang the bell and his dear voice sounded so pleased when he said: Oh! hi! Then I rode the elevator with its mirror up to the sixth floor and that’s how we wound up here. I’m so pleased. I know I am his favourite too. The scratching of his denim and mine and the rough wool of his jumper stir faintly to my ear. White light is streaming in through the window and the moon outside gazes benignly on all of us, far from home and choosing absolutely no favourites.