#191 came round for dinner. I made sweetcorn cakes with grilled tomato and salad. It was ambitious and impressive. #191 rolled a joint, accidentally dropped it in her glass of water, warmed it over the cooker, dropped it in her glass of water again, started over. It was the last of her hash. We stood out on the balcony and watched the rain as she smoked and tried to take a close-up photograph of a spider. We went through two bottles of wine. She’d never heard of the Eurovision and I showed her various highlights on YouTube. I explained the art of foreshadowing. We talked about queer stuff, gender stuff, writing, people, and it felt good to get to know somebody I clicked with so well. Which is to say, I click with lots of people but I loved how her take on things was similar to mine, how she got some things in a way that maybe some other friends might not. We went to a nearby pub for more wine and the bartender mistook my ten pound note for a twenty and gave me change accordingly and I decided not to mention it to him. We talked about sex, made out across the table and then again in the street. A straight couple were walking past, we weren’t even making out at the time, and the man said “Wait a minute, here are two lovers,” something like that, wanted to shake our hands. I’m never impressed by that kind of thing but I take my lead from whoever I’m with and the women I’m kissing are always friendlier than me: #191 humoured him. They went away, we made out some more, kissed goodbye. It was the only night we kissed. “Go easy on me,” she said later when I’d started my blog project, but I don’t even have to try given that she’s so consistently super.