Picture, if you will, the epitome of British suburbia that is my London borough, covered with torrential rain, pouring down form the heavens, making its characteristic sound on the conrete slabs of pavement, hitting lamp-posts with a metallic ting sound, and splashing against windows making a dull thud.
Glide across the roofs, around the chimneys, brush the top of the trees, and through the sheets of rain, zoom into one window. Through the water-flecked double panes of glass, observe a double bed, with a (new) springy mattress covered with red bedsheets. A green sash is tied to the bedhead, forgotten a long time ago.
Lying on the bed is a girl, fully clothed but for a pair of frilly knickers, draped over a chair, and discarded glasses on a bedside table next to a cubic clock radio. Her hair, shorter than before, sprawled out on the pillow, provides a perfect complement to her slightly flushed, but pale, cheeks. Her eyes are closed, half-sleeping, half-blissed out.
One hand lies under her head, presumably for relaxation rather than to keep her awake. The other hand falls slightly limp, some muscles somewhat in permanent use to keep a loose grip on my hand, as I - still awake - lie behind her, the other hand on her waist, listening to the steady and persistent patter of the rain, as I wait for her to slowly work her way back to the real world, decide which DVD to watch, and perhaps tell me to wash my face.