Amelia was so beautiful I was afraid to let her out of my sight in case I should lose her to some passing Romeo who would give her his mobile number scribbled on the back of  her hand while I was hailing a taxi or to some smooth talker who would calmly plonk himself down in my seat while I was in the toilet and turn her head with his foxy gift for words.

Months passed and then one day she said, We can’t go on like this.

Like what? I asked with assumed insouciance.

Like this, she said, lifting her arm up so quickly that the handcuff bit into my wrist.


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