It's been the longest night for a long time, and I am riding unsafely home. Headlamp missing, taillight flickering in a feeble attempt to catch up.
The houses I pass are a slideshow of porchlights with most channels mild, but every now and then one will flash a scene. It is late, and I am looking up at the stars in between pedalling madly up hills. It is late, and the van that passes me is stacked with Sunday newspapers. It is late, and I am alliterating again.
Most porches I pass have a sofa, but this one has a sofa with a man passionately kissing a woman, and then my bike has moved on and they are gone, and the romantic part of me asks why I haven't been kissing madly on porches lately. There are mosquitos, I say. Beds are soft, and porches are so public. But to be overcome! They were surely overcome, those two liplocked lovers, and under the mad fluorescent they made their marks on each other. Bah! To be a feast for bugs, to bare skin in balmy night air, to bask in the jaundice yellow of the porch light. Who needs it?
So maybe I do. What of it?