My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

I suspect that you know about desire, about the way it grows when it’s denied, better than anyone.

I laughed. ‘For a policeman, you’re very romantic.’ ‘For an artist, you’re very afraid,’ he said.

Outside, the afternoon was crisp and cold. The intensity of the sun convinced me I had made the right decision. The pavilion glowed a rich cream. The fountains on the Steine glittered.