Or at least mine is.

"Will you come to Dublin with me?" she said.

"Yes," I replied.

And so, at eight o'clock on halloween, I found myself flying into Dublin Airport. Marie was by my side, my lovely Marie, sweet, perfect Marie, and the heat of her body, the sense of her nearness, the slight brush of our legs when the plane banked, made my heart race and my head go dizzy. Through the windows we could see fireworks cascading towards us - brief, tantalising jets of green and red and yellow, streaking towards their zenith before bursting and fingering across the night sky in a joyful dance of death.

"For you," Marie whispered, her mouth close to my ear, breath shivering down my neck. "A Dublin welcome. I told them the prettiest girl in England was visiting."

I smiled at the conceit. A burst of elation swarmed across my senses as I thought again of the change that had been wrought in the last few days: it had all happened so suddenly it was difficult to assimilate. Marie and I had met in Amsterdam six months before and instant, mutual attraction had led us into my bed. That night is forever burned on my consciousness, a searingly vivid memory of love and lust, sensuality and sex. We lay together, hour on hour, through the night and into morning, bodies yoked and hearts entwining. When day broke we woke as one, connected forever in body and soul.

Lovers, we were; lovers.

But life, as I say, is not a straightforward storyline. Reality intervenes, mundanity blocks the path to Elysium. And so Marie and I returned to our lives, separated by sea and circumstance, and days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and my splendid, darling Marie became a treasured recollection, a trophy from another time. And I cried myself to sleep at night, and consoled myself with memories, and felt glad for what I had been granted.

And then 3;

"Will you come to Dublin with me?"

The phone call came on a cold and wet Monday and transformed my life. "Will you come to Dublin with me?" I would have gone to the moon, if she'd asked. Just hearing that voice again, that soft and husky voice, left me trembling. Instantly, an image of my treasured Marie filled my mind.

"Yes," I said.

"Thursday? Flight leaves at seven. Can you make it?"

"Yes," I said. Whatever it took, whatever it took. Anything to be with Marie again.

And so it was we came to land in Dublin on a fine winter's evening, with halloween revellers in the streets and fireworks in the sky and joy in my heart. And with Marie by my side. We reached our hotel and began to unpack, strangely silent and curiously shy. The sight of the bed - our bed - large and square and neatly waiting, awoke delicious trepidation in my breast, a fluttering fear and nervous anticipation which caused my hands to shake and my heart to hammer. I watched Marie as she flitted about the room, the confident sway of her hip, the way she held her hand so lightly, the way it flopped so casually at the wrist. And her smile, that smile, the smile which first entrapped me.

It was a smile which revealed her soul. Some people smile with their mouths but not their minds, others reveal themselves through their gestures. Marie's smile, full and honest, her lips bared and teeth exposed, with eyes alert and shining, with cheeks round and dimpled, filled the watcher with fervent wonder; filled with delight, and desire. And as I watched her, here in our room, here with me again - at last - I was transported to that day in Oudezijds Kolk, when I fell in love with my beautiful barmaid. When I saw her and I knew.

And now those feelings were overwhelming me again.

"We've got to go out." Marie turned to me, her round, blue eyes bright with excitement and her face alive with anticipation. "You have to see the streets on halloween. It's a great show." Halloween, it seems, is a big event in Ireland. Dubliners wear fancy dress and celebrate into the night, roaming the streets in large, raucous groups, and drinking in the plentiful bars of the city centre. "Get your gladrags on, girl, and let's hit the town."

Marie began to undress. I watched. I couldn't help it, couldn't draw my eyes from her, couldn't deny my desire. She smiled at me, that knowing, conniving smile that told me all I needed to know - later, it said, later. She stripped to her underwear and peeled off her bra and my eyes revisited the wondrous sight of her smooth, pale breasts, tipped by pink nipples, upturned and stiffening, as exquisite a creation as has ever been seen. Awed, I watched her bend and peel off her panties, revealing her closely trimmed bush and delicate slit. My God, to witness perfection.

"Don't think I need these."

No you don't, no you don't.

She sat on the bed and delicately slid on a pair of sheer, black, hold-up stockings, stopping every few seconds and grinning at me, revelling in my rapt attention. As she turned towards the bed I glimpsed the round cheeks of her backside, framed perfectly by the stockings, the sensuousness of her curves accentuated by the dark proximity of the fabric. She put on a multiway bra and slipped into a stunning red top. It went over the right shoulder and cut diagonally across her breast beneath her opposite arm, leaving the left shoulder delightfully exposed; down her left side there were only about three inches of material before it crossed diagonally once more towards the right, forming a deep vee which pointed dramatically down her hip. Her entire right side was covered but the left was largely exposed, revealing an intriguing glimpse of her belly button whenever she moved. My mouth was dry, my pussy moist, my lover's show bewitching me. She completed the ensemble with a shiny, black leather skirt, cut on the opposite diagonal to the red top, and with a slit which left her right thigh exposed almost high enough to see the elastication of her stocking. I stopped breathing. She stood and turned on the spot for me, the wicked grin on her face searingly sexy.

I was humbled - and astonished - that someone would make such an effort for me. Marie looked ravishing, stunningly attractive, and I was amazed to think that she had selected this electrifying outfit for my benefit. I sensed a tear in my eye and in that instant I felt unworthy of the vision of beauty before me.

"Well, are you going to get changed?" Marie watched me, an amused twinkle in her eye. So enraptured had I been by her exhibition I had made no effort to change myself. My hands were still shaking and I fumbled uselessly at the buttons of my blouse. "Here, let me." Marie approached, willowy and sensual. I was totally under her spell, unable to move. She undressed me, slowly and with love, caressing the blouse from my shoulders and the bra from my breasts. Sitting on the bed she smoothed my jeans over my hips and glided them down my thighs, carefully picking them off and peeling my socks from my feet. I shivered as her hands slid across my soles and gripped my heel, as her fingers brushed languidly against my toes. She raised her head and kissed my thigh and tugged my panties down.

Naked.

I was naked before my love, vulnerable and exposed, given solely to her. Marie put her hand to my knee and pushed, forcing me to move my leg, to open myself before her. She dipped towards me and rested her nose on my mons, breathing in deeply, and I was excited to know she could smell my desire. Her tongue lapped delicately, rasping gently the length of my slit and I shuddered. Her hands snaked around me and gripped my buttocks, pulling me towards her, pressing her delicious mouth harder against my pussy.

"What fun we're going to have," she said at last, standing and kissing me full on the lips. Her breath, the sweet touch of her lip, the taste of her mouth filled my head, filled me with longing, with desire, with love: Marie, my love; Marie, my love. I wanted to hold Marie, my love. I wanted to know her, wanted to feel her, wanted her beauty for my own.

And then she dressed me; with elegant care and tender devotion she concealed that which was hers. She wore a frown of concentration, her broad forehead furrowed and her lips puckered in an unselfconscious pout. I had nothing as exotic as Marie's outfit, just an ordinary skirt and blouse, but I didn't feel plain. I was in the company of the most beautiful woman in the world and I was touched by her beauty: I was beautiful by association.

We set off into Dublin, strolling arm in arm and laughing and loving, straining to see fireworks above, evading merry groups in our way. There were ghouls and there were ghosts, and witches and hags, and pumpkin lanterns in every window; and Scream masks and black cloaks, broomsticks and warlocks' hats, a riot of colour and happiness. The city was bustling, vigorous and vivacious, a place of good humour and confidence. And as we walked through the tumult, engaged in its conviviality, it seemed to be the mirror of Marie, as though the soul of one resided in the other. But which, I wondered, was which?

Off O'Connell Street, we kissed beneath the statue of James Joyce, my hand inside Marie's coat and sliding round her waist, thrilling to the touch of her bare skin. We kissed and we knew we should never be parted, ensnared by the sorcery of love. We kissed and Joyce himself, that conjurer of words, the master of emotion, he seemed to me to approve. Standing on his plinth, legs jauntily crossed and resting on his cane, he wore a distant expression of tolerant amusement. We kissed and we stood, cheek to cheek, defying the glances of passers-by, embracing each other and embracing our love, and we knew that our fates were entwined.

"Thank you for bringing me."

"Thank you for coming."

Her eyes were alive, shining through the gloom of the Dublin night. I caressed her cheek, her skin so soft, so smooth, and cold in the November air. I kissed her small, sharp nose, and then her mouth, down-soft and precious, and we gave our regards to Nora and bade farewell to James, and hand in hand we walked on, on into Dublin, on into destiny. I was walking on air, the power of the moment impelling me, the sweet, ineluctable sense of belonging invading my psyche for the very first time. We were cocooned in our existence, part of the halloween crowds but alone in our elation, as though our passion was untouchable, unfathomable. Down the street we observed the O'Connell Monument, with Daniel O'Connell himself astride his plinth and all around winged victories, bright angels at rest after the fight had been won. Through the breast of one was a single, neat bullet hole, a relic of the Civil War. And yet Victory sat, unflinching and proud: it takes more than a man and a gun to extinguish a heart that's in love.

At O'Connell Bridge, a perfect square, the heart of Dublin, we stopped to get our bearings. Down there was Trinity College and Grafton Street, and here was Temple Bar: the educational, the commercial and the cultural, all vying for attention. And beside us, quietly murmering, aloof from the bustle and commotion, flowed the River Liffey, Anna Livia herself, and it seemed right to keep her company. We walked down the quay, away from the centre of town, from the cluster of bars, the clamour and noise, until we were alone, Marie and me and the river.

And a new mood overtook me, by the river, alone with Marie: a bittersweet sense of the frailness of time, of its flow which cannot be repelled. Six months had elapsed since that wonderful day when I first felt the love of Marie, and they had pained me, drained me, affected me deeper than I could ever have known. Gradually, through isolation, a love can burn less fiercely, but its core remains as hot as ever, ready to rekindle when released from its quietude. And at that moment, holding Marie's hand, watching the Liffey, the passion burning inside me was threatening to explode. My eyes travelled along the deep, dark track of the river.

It was beautiful, so soft, not a break in its surface. Waves, wonderfully smooth, tiny and regular, fluttered across it, taking care not to rush, not to get ahead of themselves, not to break and disturb the calm. They didn't so much flow as pulse downstream, a gentle, peristaltic rhythm, hypnotically repetitive and deceptively fast. No matter how quickly we walked we could never - quite - catch up; the river, in its sedate way, always managed to evade us, as though streaming invincibly to heaven. We passed a streetlight, its orange glow thrown on the water, highlighting in chiarascuro glory the upward tilt of the waves. It looked like a skeleton, the very backbone of the river: and it brought the river to life.

Such calm beauty, such natural perfection, and my darling Marie by my side. I couldn't have been happier, couldn't have asked for anything more. And yet. We walked on, following the river, letting it guide us, while my brain was ablaze with activity. And yet, and yet... Despite my joy at being in the company of the woman I loved I felt a gnawing sense of doubt, a fear that at first I couldn't place, ambiguous and uncertain; but as we continued down the quay it began to resolve itself, slowly, painfully, into a clear and simple message, one I wanted to ignore but couldn't.

I didn't want to be hurt.

"I missed you so much." I tried not to cry, but I couldn't prevent it and a tear rolled down my cheek. I looked into her eyes and saw everything to which I had ever aspired, for which I had ever dreamed and in which I wanted to believe. I saw my love, my sweet Marie, the key to my happiness. Or despair. "I missed you so much."

And it was only in that moment that I realised how much. It was only in that moment that I knew I could never accept anything other than unconditional love, that my heart would be broken if I lost her again. It was only in that moment, that vicious moment, the hardest moment of my life.

"So did I."

Tears were coursing down my face. "But did you? Really?" I had to know. In what way did she miss me? Was it because I was good in bed, a convenient body to play with? Or something more? Or - and the devil curse my insecurity - was it something less? She looked away as she answered me.

"Yes, I did."

So why didn't you call, a voice screamed in my head. Or write? Or let me know you cared? Dear God, why not? Why didn't you, why didn't you?

But then, of course, why didn't I?

Such a fickle creature, love. Such a way it has of tearing you and twisting you, making you doubt and making you rail, firing you like a pinball between pride and ambivalence, anger and bewilderment. What to do, what to do, dear river please tell me what I should do.

"I've got to know." I turned away from her and rested my hands on the railings, staring at the river, entrusting my future to Anna Livia. Overhead a firework exploded, erupting into a trail of the brightest green which the river, velvet and sombre, reflected in eccentric, refractory forms, weirdly misshapen in contrast to the regular, familiar outline of its tidal backbone. Marie was by my side, her hand on the railing next to mine, but not touching, not quite: together, but a million miles apart. "I've got to know: are you going to disappear again? When the weekend's over? Back to Amsterdam?"

"Don't you want me to?"

Of course I don't, can't you see that, isn't it obvious? I wept as the river flowed on, regardless of the drama by its banks, as it followed its nature and obeyed the laws of time, and I prayed that time would stop. This conversation had to take place, but I wished, oh god how I wished, that I didn't have to be there when it did.

"I'm not sure I could bear it, going back to the hotel tonight and making love, if I didn't know you were going to be there in the morning. Every morning." My heart was racing, icy panic bobbing in my chest. I stared at the river and begged its support. I whispered the word.

"Forever."

Silence. The longest silence in the world, the worst, the most painful, heart-rendingly soulless silence in the world while my destiny was weighed. We both stared ahead, into the river, into the void. And the river flowed on, and so did time, and I knew my answer was nigh. Marie's hand moved towards me and rested on mine, and I felt a faint warmth and a squeeze. Peremptory or encouraging, dismissive or consoling? I knew I must soon find out. And as the moment arrived it appeared to me that time stood still and the river stopped and only the two of us were alive. She turned to me, her eyes moist and smile strained.

"Then we'd better go back to our room to make love."