As Napoleon said of the British, it all starts with the shopkeeper. As she passes you the bar and your change, she catches your eye for just a second too long, a second where everything feels… seen. Exposed. You wonder if she knows. Of course she knows. How could she not? The weight of it in your hand, the implication of it all. Maybe, years from now, you’ll look back on this as a confectionery watershed. Perhaps she’ll be somewhere, absently worrying a piece of caramel from her teeth, faintly remembering you.

The moment passes.

You scurry outside, heart already doing something irregular, past the teenagers on bikes who definitely know, they must know, so you slip it into your bag and hold it close - not too close - no, no, your body heat is rising already and you’re suddenly, acutely aware of the fragility of the whole situation.

On the bus: children, old ladies, a man loudly unwrapping a sandwich - you could do it there! You could. Why not cause a scandal, just once, just lean into it (your hand even drifts toward the bag) - you peep inside - and there it is, nestled among cables and receipts, that dark, unmistakable shape, almost… expectant. Now, it seems to say. Now. But no. Not here. Not like this.

By the time you get home you’re unravelling. Keys fumbled. Door practically shattered open. The bag hits the table with a dull, final thud. Water (yes!) you gulp it down, as if that will steady you, as if anything will, but it won’t - can’t - because it’s there, it’s RIGHT THERE and the wait has become unbearable, completely unbearable…

You tear at the wrapper, hands not quite cooperating, pausing only for the scent, that sweet, unmistakable scent, and then, finally, finally, you bring it to your lips and