Pimms' Day

Was that the last time we were together? The night we did the mushrooms?

I know I have seen you since, once. You wore that cute navy duffel coat, and you gave me a necklace you had brought me from Africa and we got lunch at the Jamaican place in St. Nicholas' Market. But we weren't together then, it wasn't the same.

It had been such a lovely day, that last real day we were together. It was sunny and warm, the first real day of summer. We had sandwiches on the lawn outside the university, and then Tam had the inspired idea of making Pimms, and we went to the corner shop for supplies and sat in the back garden, swatting bees as we sipped our drinks and munched on the alcohol infused fruit in the bottom of our glasses. Actually, it was me who brought up the mushrooms I knew you had under your bed. That's a whim if ever there was one. It was so out of character for me. You had suggested it before, but it wasn't my thing.
But the sunshine and the Pimms and your company made me giddy, and so you went upstairs to retrieve the tin box where they were drying.
Tam started to explain how the most bearable way to take them was mixed in with yoghurt, but I tried one and thought it was delicious, and started picking away at them like they were pistachios.

That was the night we said it, and the words trailed colours behind them, just like everything else, and I leaned forward to kiss you but stumbled and we fell into a couch, and laughed, and then later things got darker and next thing I'm late for my flight and you're driving me to the airport when I realise you have a black eye and I think I have a broken nose from our kiss-miss and we're hungover to hell and barely get to say goodbye.

That was the last time we were together, and that's my fault. I'm sorry.