We met at an office party. He looked vaguely familiar - his impassive, fierce stare reminded me of an owl. A man of refreshing candor. The easy gait of an athlete. He knew Latin and Greek; I had only a little French.
The smell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that evening. The sleeve of his coat. A piece of cake. A firework display. The plays of Shakespeare. The paintings of Rembrandt. A rich, hoppy beer. Poor John always enjoyed a drink. Anyway, he died last year.
To make a long story short, I married Stephen. The movie broke box-office records.