We were both 18, I expect, when she said: “I don’t want to grow old. This here, now, is perfect.
Will you promise me one thing?”
And I said: “Yep, sure, ask away.”
“If I reach my 30th birthday, I want you to kill me without regret.”
“Simple, you’ll stumble into a grave you’ve been visiting for nine years and break your neck. It’ll be mine and you’ll be holding a ring of flowers. And eventually crows will descend and peck out the years, months, weeks and hours, until all that’ll be left are the few seconds we have now.
The time that is ours.”
She was lying on her back, smoking a cigarette. On a cliff-top in Dorset.
I think it was Purbeck.