“Come on, let’s just turn on our heels and leave this place. What does it hold for you? There’s nothing here for me. We’ll walk along the road to the end of town and, in the end, someone will give us a lift to London. We will survive there. Whom else do we need but each other? Me with my quick wits, you with your quick body. We could find work doing something. Painting, decorating, stacking shelves. Enough to buy a flat. I could write poetry in my spare time and you would make pots and play the piano in bars. In the evenings we could lie by each other’s side on a sofa and just be. I would stroke your hair with my fingers, and maybe our lips would touch in a kiss. Why not? Why not?” — Moab is My Washpot