We were drinking in a corner booth of the Rat and Parrot pub, which was in the outlying suburbs of London, spending one of our last nights in London without a real plan of action, going wherever the city and the evening would take us.

She sipped on a pint of Caffrey's and I ran my hands over the marred wooden surface of the tabletop, names and locations etched into the grain of the wood over countless nights by both drunken travelers and bored locals.

Earlier that day, we'd taken a train up to Dover, where we'd had our photo taken with the notorious white cliffs rising in the distance behind us.  On the train, she slept, head in my lap, while I read a magazine. Every now and then I’d look out the window for more of the same fields and boroughs, at the time a little eager to return to London, but also a little content to not have to be on the move.

"There’s foam on your lip," I said to her, taking a draw from my own pint.

"It’s good beer," she responded, wiping her mouth off comically with the back of her sleeve, passing her entire forearm over her face.  I think by that point she was more than a little drunk.  If she didn't mind, neither did I.

"What are we going to do tonight?" I asked, setting my glass down on the table and reaching over to pick up my cigarette.

"We’re going to quit smoking, I hope," she said, scorning.

"After that, I mean."

"I don't know, hang out.  Make out.  Walk around Putney."

"All excellent suggestions."

"Thanks, that's why I made them," she said, winking at me.  We walked around a lot, in every city that we went to, and it was nice, because we never ran out of things to talk about and we never got bored on our excursions.  She always had an interesting observation about things or sometimes some obscure point to talk about, but often, we didn't talk much at all, we were content in each other's company.   Good silences, and the ability to pull them off, they’re something that really counts in the end.