It starts with her thinking about what it will be like to have a pint in a beer garden again. She imagines the condensation on the glass, dreams of twirling a damp beermat between her fingers, pictures trying to find a spot on a wooden bench that isn’t splattered with bird shit.

Beer gardens are the kind of exhibitionist setting she likes. A picnic table is perfect for getting fingered. These days they tend to save that kind of behaviour for times when it’s just the two of them at the pub, but it hasn’t always been that way. When they first met, at university, there were often four people crammed onto each side of the table, and so, who could blame them when their hands wandered.

That had been her favourite thing of all – watching the first time he picked up his pint after his fingers had been inside her. Waiting to see if her wetness would leave a smear on the glass.

So yes, although she hasn’t thought about this for years, now she can’t stop thinking about it. If they were locked down together, of course, they could try it in their own garden, but they’re not, and in a way she prefers it that way. It wouldn’t be the same without other people around – it would lack the risk, which is a key part of the appeal.

And so, she doesn’t even tell him about it yet, although she will, one day. For now, it’s just a fantasy, something that belongs to her and her only. She might not tell him until they’re actually there, in the pub, months from now, and she’ll put his hand high on her bare thigh and whisper, ‘Finger me?’

She just wants to leave her mark on the world again.