The Canal Houseboat – Part 2: Last Night on the Water

On the last evening, the rain finally stopped.

The canal was black glass, scattered with reflected lamps. Boats glided by with fairy lights strung along their rails. Across the water, a window glowed with a woman playing the cello. Somewhere a gull complained, and a bicycle bell rang once, softly.

Tessa and Bram sat on the deck with a bottle of wine and a plate of cheese, wrapped in a blanket. They had eaten dinner twice that day, on purpose, to make it last.

"I leave tomorrow," said Tessa.

"I know."

"I'm trying not to say that out loud."

"You just did."

She laughed, then went quiet. The lights wavered on the water. She was acutely aware of his shoulder against hers, the warm wool of his jumper, the smell of coffee and canal air.

"Can I ask you something?" said Bram.

"Yes."

"Will you come back? Not for the boat."

"For what, then?"

"For the person who made terrible tea," said Bram, "and left the blanket down."

Her throat tightened. "That's rather specific."

"I am an engineer."

"May I kiss you?" she asked, in a rush.

"Yes," said Bram. "And if you say stop, you must sleep behind the curtain again."

"That's not a punishment."

"No. It's a joke. I'll never put it up."

She kissed him, softly, her hand on the wool of his jumper. He kissed her back with a slow, careful warmth, one hand rising to her cheek. The kiss tasted of wine and salt. The canal lapped at the hull, and a boat passed with its lights, rocking them gently.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Tessa. "Very green."

She came back in March. The app had fixed its error. They kept the booking anyway.

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