The best bit isn’t that chill when his eyes darken; going-to-rain grey sweeping in to drench the green.

Nor the quiver as I wonder what he’ll do this time; something he knows I hate - and he always knows if it is - or something I can use.

It isn’t the beginning, the middle, or the end, when I’m enduring, obeying, performing as best I can.

It’s not even afterwards, when we fall into a sprawl, hands and mouths everywhere, saying ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ without words.

No. It’s knowing it’s all there, waiting for me, all the time.

It’s the certainty.

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