'Is this what I think it is?' she said.
He didn't know whether to walk away now while he still had a chance, or cup her jaw in his palm (he remembered the fit, the flex of the bone and warm flesh as he kissed her). There was nothing standing in their way now was there? It all came flooding back to him. He hesitated, remembered their last conversation. The recriminations: 'I gave up everything for you, everything!' he had cried, rubbing angry, hot tears from his eyes.
'Did I ask you to stay?' she was shaking with cold and fear. She was wearing a thin cotton summer dress, sat on a tree trunk near the river, arms crossed, hugging herself. 'Did I? Everyone said you were too good for me, and now I've just gone and proved them right ...'
'But I love you.' The words tore from his throat. He caught his breath. 'I love you. We could have done anything, gone anywhere ...'
'This is where we belong,' she said firmly. 'Your family owns this place. This is your town, your land ...'
'And all I wanted was you,' he hit out, clasped the warm air like a lifeline. 'Why? Why him? Wasn't what we had enough?'
Then he was there again, in the bar. Everything had changed, but nothing had changed. Was she still with him? Perhaps he should bide his time. 'What have you got to do to get a drink in this place,' he asked ...