His heart is pounding and when he kisses her it is as if the whole of Riyadh disappears – the wide sky, the hard surface of the roof, the date palms and the water wells.

Kissing her is like drinking salted water, he thinks. His thirst only increases.

The sky was a sparkling succession of black diamonds on black velvet made crystal clear by the blackout.

He tasted of whisky and his skin was rough where he hadn’t shaved, but Mirabelle kissed him back.

She wishes her grandmother had not been so protective, and that she understood better what passes between a man and woman. As it is, she simply enjoys the feelings and wonders if they are what lightning is made of, for everything comes back to the weather. Tears like rain. Smiles like the sun. Hair as dry as sand and fear like the dark ocean.

I'm suggesting we call sex something else, and it should include everything from kissing to sitting close together