"It’s easy to talk about love in the dark. Why don’t you try and speak of it during the day, when the sun is shining down on the world?" Red neon light coming in from the window illuminates her feet, little else. He is spooned behind her, arm draped over her side.

"I don’t know what I can say. It all feels done before during the day. As if the night were the only time we have that is new. Imagine all the things that have happened during the day: war, famine, death, recession, depression . . . The night is the only time we have where there is nothing to see, only what we feel, the bodies against us, the blanket over and bed under. We can speak in clichés at night without fear of being seen as no-one special, because we can’t be seen at all. All we have are the words themselves. The world they were made in is abstraction at night. It’s beyond the shadows. The world, at night, is nothing."

He kisses her nape.

"What’s vital is what is here."