At times she thinks of me as a fine, delicate china cup, disparaging herself as the bull running wild in the shop. But I’m not so fragile and she’s not so snorting and pawing. In a quiet time, when I am feeling feverish and run-down and vulnerable, she imagines drinking Earl Grey from me, and then (de-anthropomorphising me, as quick as thought) leaving a trail of hot, burgamot-scented kisses from heel to crown, finishing where she loves to finish. For this, I don’t mind being thought of as delicate.
And yet it is she who cracks, who crumbles like a biscuit in the saucer of the cup, who smashes, while my love hoofs or gallops on relentlessly, not so much minotaur as runner of a marathon of marathons. And I would, I’d girdle the globe with GPS data to prove or show my love. I’d circumnavigate the seven seas, dive for sunken treasure, go after golden fleece or holy grail or pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, if it meant I could come home to a castle containing her.