The Definition

“What do you think love is?” She asked, pushing her head into the pillow.

“Why d’you ask?” He replied.

“Just wondered.”

He was undressing, clumsily, by the window. The sun had long disappeared behind the row of red brick council houses outside, and they were illuminated now by a single hostile streetlamp.

“You know when you run out of cigarettes in the middle of the night?” He said. She nodded. “Or if you’re broke and you can’t afford any wine.” She nodded again, uncertainly this time. “Then the morning comes, and it’s payday, so you go out and buy some cigarettes and you drink the wine.” He was naked now except for a pair of awkward black boxer shorts and a silver chain around his neck. “Well, that’s love.” He declared, and climbed into bed beside her. “When you haven’t got it, you kill yourself waiting for it. And when you get it, it’s never enough.”

The girl looked at him longingly.

“Do you really believe that?” She said.

“Don’t you?” He replied.

But she was silent, so he flicked the lamp switch, leaving them both in darkness.