A party. A meeting of eyes. An approach. Within hours they’d decanted their souls—and plenty of cheap wine, too. Dizzy with desire, they bolted to her place for a night of lovemaking measurable on the Richter scale. Next morning they set off for a nearby tattoo parlour. Despite her low pain threshold, she had agreed they’d inscribe the other’s name above their hearts. This was no fling, after all. But hang on, what were their names? ‘Jo,’ she said, laughing. ‘Michelangelo,’ he said. ‘Would Mick do?’ she asked. Silence fell over them like the light of the new day.