Our drinks came, followed by more rambling on both of our parts. After the bar had its last call, we stumbled out into the street, holding each other up, a scene from countless movies that I’d seen playing out in real life, except I was living it. Everything seemed like a dream, blurry through my drunkenness. We wandered down the road a while, eventually coming to rest at a bus stop waiting bench. We sat. "You know," I said to her, "that getting drunk with you and being drunk around you, it's totally different than all those times that I always got drunk before." "In a good way or a bad way?" she asked, huddling up against me. It was a little window on that street, and as was the usual in London, everything was wet, which made it seem a little chillier than it really was. "A good way, a good way," I reassured her. "It’s a way that's totally without the pervasive sense of trying to hide from something, to escape, that came hand in hand with all the other times, back in The States," I said, referring to the days before she showed up. The night before, even. I went on, "It's just really nice, and I know I'm being redundant when I tell you that, because I tell you how I love you and how nice things are all the time, but I feel like I'm just not expressing it on a level like I'm feeling it, because words are just not right for those feelings." "I know what you mean," she said, squeezing me. I could feel her fingers gripping my side through the heavy wool overcoat I was wearing. Our breath formed a small cloud of fog around us as we sat. "If we ever figure out how I got here, and how to link up again like we did on that first day, I’ve got so many things to express to you that aren't easily conveyed through words." "Words are all we've got for now, huh?" I asked.