Come to Helsinki, he says, or Stockholm. He gives me his business card, talks and talks and talks over the backs of our two couches. I sink lower. He traces for me his journey from Delhi to Sweden. In between the different countries of his life recalled, he holds a large hardback book with pictures over my couch. I dream of Cambridge like this - pointing at snow and yellow Victorian cast iron lanterns - I find it like this. A finger hovers accusingly at the window. I am certain he can see no more than the loose wisps of my hair, vaguely purple in the evening sun.

For want of a snorkel, I do not hold my breath. I envy the ease with which he talks about nothing, breezing over my silences. I am far too aware of myself, I think the next day, getting lost on purpose and reveling in not knowing anyone in this small town. Not knowing anyone does not guarantee not being known. A beautiful French woman pops up from behind a pillar with my passport photo in her hand, and makes a triumphant statement out of my name, a twist of vowels I fall in love with.

This self-awareness is lost only in sex. The biting pulling hurting kind, the head back and mouth gasping air from the small corners between hot hair.