I slung my arm, less than fluidly, over Matt's shoulders, as we shared a song together in the middle of the street.
"And you better start swimming or you'll sink like a stone. For the times they are a' changin'.." Matt trailed off, but I continued with a slightly hushed "Come writers and critics, who prophesize with your pen..." Matt smirked at me.
"What?" I questioned, with more demand to my tone than I intended.
"How is it that you always know all the lyrics to that kind of stuff?" It was a genuine inquiry, and after a few seconds of muddled thought, I replied, mirroring his shrug.
"Gotta love Bob, Matthew."
I pushed half of my weight onto him, melting my side into his - the casual effect of more than a few rum and cokes. He looked down at me, his laughter diminishing but the smile ever-present as he looped his arm round my waist in an instinctive bid to support me.
Despite the late hour and the many drinks I'd had, I could stand perfectly well on my own, give or take a few sways, and was very aware of the weight and warmth of his arm coiled round me. I remember feeling vaguely conscious of the strange pride in the fact that anyone who walked past the pub as we stood, numb to the cold, fag in hand, millimetre close, would assume we were a real couple. At the very least dating.
Matt brought his free hand up to tap the tip of my nose with his finger.
"One more drink, and then home? We'll put a movie on and crack a bottle open." He smiled and, using his arm around my waist as leverage, jiggled me on the spot. At that moment, it was alright to laugh, so I did so to cover the grin that I was barely suppressing at the thought of our usual post-pub plan. We'd get home, and while I set up a DVD from our collection and settled myself on the sofa, Matt would go downstairs to the kitchen, returning swiftly with a bottle of red or gin and chilled tonic - it varied - and two of the largest glasses we owned. Nothing put a bigger smile on my face.
Forty minutes later, there we were. Matt edged into the room, kicking the door shut with his foot, his hands occupied with, tonight, a bottle of merlot. It looked expensive. When we went for our weekly shop, our routine always included a trip to the wine isle, and as a rule we never looked at prices. Where red wine was concerned, cheap was never good. Fancy and artistic labels on the other, were generally a good indication of quality.
On the ivory label of this bottle, a cartoon-esque dog balanced a ball on its nose. I reached one arm out to take the bottle, the other patting the sofa beside me as a silent request for sofa company.
"What are we watching, Darling?" Matt inquired, dropping lazily into the sofa cushions.
"It's Kit. After nine months, Matt, it's .. uhh.. Watchmen. That Bob Dylan song got me thinking about it. It's on the soundtrack." I took a larger than average sip of wine, and a larger than average deep breath, because as we switched off the lamps and settled in for the film, I gave myself a very firm mental slap and for the first time, scooched over to Matt's side of the sofa, and rested my head onto his shoulder, where the smell of his laundry powder and aftershave mingled with the warmth of his shirt and it really was like sensing happiness.
And then it was even more wonderful, because a few minutes later he shifted his arm around and wedged it between my shoulders and the back of the sofa, wriggling and pulling me about until I fit comfortably against him, on our sides, my back against his chest, an extra arm around me added.
"Do you want a pillow there?" He whispered.
"No," I smiled. "I'm good."