My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

I could have lied, I suppose. But even then I had a terrible dread of being found out. In the end, people always found you out. And when they did, it would be worse than if you’d simply told the truth in the first place.

Because when you’re in love with someone for the first time, their name is enough. Just seeing my hand form Tom’s name was enough. Almost.

People say that love is like a lightning bolt, but this wasn’t like that; this was like warm water, spreading through me.

I laughed. “For a policeman, you’re very romantic.” “For an artist, you’re very afraid,” he said. My answer to that was to kiss him hard on the mouth.

You referred to the landscape as sculptural, and talked of nature’s palette and the texture of her materials. During one particularly long walk, when my shoes had started to pinch, I commented: “It’s all an artwork to you, isn’t it?” You stopped and looked at me, your face serious. “Of course. It’s the great artwork. The one we’re all trying to imitate.”