You did not expect him to return to you on the bendy bus, but that is where he finds you. Something about its rubber innards – the accordion ribcage inhaling and exhaling – reminds you of his concertina demeanour. Your squeezebox: he was always stretching, always reaching for something higher. Books from the top shelf; imaginary basketball hoops. Always jumping up to tap at signs and street furniture, swinging from bars and branches as you passed, monkeying down the high street with a spring in his step. As if he wasn’t tall enough already, but he was, two heads above you; so that you’d need ballerina point work to tippy-toe up for a kiss, hand stretched skywards for balance. UpuPUP and he’d lift you; dangle you, a puppet, from his arms. He filled every space with his bouncing and fidgeting and talking but now it is your turn to uncoil.
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