We have stolen uncertain kisses in Prague and Athens and Barcelona and Sydney and New York and Paris, poached them a little more certain in Amsterdam and pickpocketed them so obviously in Pld Compton Street. But in the street on Pride day your arm is around mine and stays there, afternoon sun burning your imprint on to my skin. You have three inches more height than I, which gives you greater purchase to hold me tight when we walk together, and when I feel like it, which is very often, I turn up my face and kiss you. All day. Like the couples in the tube and the couples at the airport and the couples at their weddings. And usually we wouldn't want to be those couples anyway. We are more private with our passion, almost enjoy the need to save it up, the exquisite tension of sexual waiting.