One lunchtime I was already on the bench, having spent some time there reading over proofs in the morning sun with a bottle of cold beer. Nuria arrived, exuberant, flushed. She was wearing white jeans and trainers, a red cotton top. She moved my papers and sat astride me, straddling me, heels pulled tight into the small of my back. She kissed me deeply for what seemed like a very long time, then lifted her head, shaking the hair from her face. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and everything about her seemed to be encapsulated for a moment in those overflowing eyes: desire, incomprehension, and something akin to fear. She began to talk slowly, her voice uncertain.
‘When I’m at work I know that I am going to meet you and yet it’s only a few hours since I last saw you, touched your face. But I burn up inside with the thought of seeing you again, and by the time I step onto the street, walk down the Ramblas, I want to… I want to drown you. I want to everything you. I can’t be this good, I keep telling myself. Something really shit has to happen. And why do I think that? I hate myself for thinking that. I feel like a monster too, as though I wanted to consume you; no, to drown you, like I said, or better still to drown with you. Drowning you and drowning with you and drowned by you.’
– The Colour of a Dog Running Away by Richard Gwyn