Teeny tiny chapter as been very busy!
Ruth looked at the toilet bowl. The toilet bowl looked back. Neither was about to let go of the other.
"Harry sodding Pearce!" muttered Ruth.
The river ran by, echoing back as it always did his own emotions.
The morning after their dinner he had stood precisely here and it had shimmered, almost blinding him with joyful reflected, refracted light.
And here too he had lingered after she had told him in no uncertain terms, that there would be no chance of it ever happening again; on a day when the clouds met the water and the Thames appeared flat, a solid mass devoid of life or welcome.
Now he stood here once more and this time the water met the clouds; rivets of rainwater puncturing the river; neither really knowing where the other began. It bounced off his shoulders and ran through his hair.
"Oh, Ruth," he whispered.