The memory: She reaches out and takes my hand in both hers, and I feel the cool weight of a river stone in my palm. 'This can be your stone. Put it somewhere so you don't look at it often, so when you do it'll always be about you and me.'� It's the sort of thing ony she can say without sounding silly. I open my hand, look at the teardrop-shaped stone, banded about its narrower end by three almost parallel lines of quartz. It is beautiful and simple, in the way nature does so well. I slide it into my pocket, smile at her and take her hand and we walk home, watching the sun poach gently in an orangepink broth of twilight and stars. A quiet happiness.

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The now: I am looking at a woman whom I will never love and I imagine her naked. She is 32 and she is scared of getting old, of being alone and not mattering any more. So we have something in common. I admit to these feelings, which makes me different from her. But we both like the idea of having sex with each other, which is really all either of us ever expected or hoped for.

We're in a sleek, minimalist coffee shop; polished floors, white walls; chrome, black leather for choosy bums. She's in chic, scruffy jeans and leather boots, with a white t-shirt. She looks good, and so do I in my leather shoes, chic, scruffy jeans and shirt that shows off my nice-shaped chest and disguises my narrow shoulders. Two egos orbiting coitus; two on-heat animals pretending their basic mating is something more.

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The memory: I stand behind her and gently wrap my arms around her, and she seems suddenly to be so much smaller. 'It's not your fault,'� I whisper. She just squeezes me, her warm hands on my bare forearms. I feel a gentle tickling on my hand; a tear has tumbled, left a track on my arm, but I don't do a thing and she just holds me holding her. 'She's my mum.'� That's all she can get out. I hold her, let her cry. Then she turns and hugs me, lets her salty, soft face press mine and we are as close as two people can be. A profound closeness.

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The now: After an hour of small talk ' really just swapping criteria for sex ' we both start thinking of other things. The things we'll do tomorrow, next week, after the act: The future.

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The memory: I watch her drive away, my tears crowding behind my eyes. Some for anger, some for grief, some for self pity. All over her. And him. The past.

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The now: The phone nuzzles angrily at my leg. It tells me Manny Cosgrove is dead. Past and future brawl for attention and the past wins. No contest.

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