My long-distance lover from Leghorn

You were buying a birthday cake for your mother from the pasticceria on the corner of Via Venti Settembre. Pretty garish really, lots of gold. Bling. They soak the sponge in some kind of syrup and liqueur - even the ones for kids. It's supposed to keep it moist. Weird that word, 'moist'. But me, being me, I think it's to make the damned things heavier. You pay by weight you see. Ha ha. I'm not daft. 'Still got my wits about me.

And that was it. Boom. Struck by lightning - love at first sight. At least on your part, or so you say. It took me a little longer. Perhaps an hour. When you kissed me on the bench by the sea. We talked and talked and then, when it suddenly started raining, we ran for cover underneath the arches, and you forgot the cake. I felt so guilty. So sorry for your mother's wet cake. But you laughed, and she laughed and the guests had ice-cream instead. And whenever it was your mother's birthday she would tell everyone that story, and we'd laugh about the cake. And you'd say, "it must be moist by now".

Everyone says we're cute; odd at our age to be cute. We're not youngsters anymore. Over 30s. We make them smile. A tall guy with long hair and a slim, English woman with a hat. In love. Walking on air; heads in the clouds. Laughing every day.

It was funny when you told me where you were from, because you knew the name in English. And, of course, Leghorn made me think of chickens. Foghorn Leghorn? Was it a cartoon on Saturday mornings when I was a child?

So we have to meet at weekends as it's a long drive from Tuscany. We go out and eat lobster in the piazza in Portofino, or hamburgers at the Greek place with the blue doors and shutters. Nice - no air con. We went to a concert in the square one New Year's Eve. It's been a long time since I sang so loud. 'I'm a believer... ' and I am. They were all singing in Italian, but not me. Champagne in plastic cups. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6 ... "Auguri! Buon Anno! " And fireworks. There are always fireworks when you're here. I hear music. I swear I do. But you don't believe me.

My heart soars. It really does, and I get butterflies in my stomach - dancing the Tarantella - every Friday when you arrive. And presents, always presents. English biscuits and a plastic figure of the Queen that waves in the sun. One week, a pink silk scarf. "My favourite colour", I lie. Pink to make the boys wink. My favourite colour is orange but I love it, because I love you. I tell you all the time because I can't help it. When I'm driving or walking or in bed. I love you, I love you. I love you...

The trips we've made. Cruising around the med. on your uncle's yacht, with the wind in our faces and jumping from the gangplank into the turquoise below. Piña coladas and skimpy bikinis, because it's always sunny when you're here. My long-haired lover from Leghorn. Your mother says you are her sunshine and it is true. You make the world a better place. Barcelona on the beach; Santorini sunsets over white houses. London's South Bank with jugglers and street vendors, and a girl in a silver dress who sings 'Purple Rain' so exquisitely I cry. And you are bemused. You kiss my tears and my nose. You kiss my fingers and my ears. You kiss my lips and I'm sure I'm going to die in your arms.

I write in my diary that the sun is brighter, the food is tastier. The sea is bluer, the music is louder. When you're here. When you're here, it's all so perfect. I adore you. Like a child, sleeping. The sleep of the innocent. I stand and watch you in bed, like a mother. I imagine I am Mary because there is something spiritual in that moment. Your long legs and peaceful expression. I am in the presence of something I cannot explain. You are a truly beautiful soul.

We watched this really crazy video once and laughed so much we snorted. And snorted so much we laughed. I haven't laughed like that since I was a child. Joy. Yes, joy; it's joyful. Not since my brothers tickled me so much I laughed until I couldn't breathe.

A whirlwind romance. Is that what this is? I feel myself spinning, like a top. Or a helicopter, ready for take-off. And you even take me to eat Indian food. You hate spicy food. And when we go home you say, "I'll take you again". But I don't ask you to.

You ask me if I feel loved and I say I do. We get engaged on San Valentino. A cliché. I want a simple wedding this time. White cotton and jewelled sandals, and jasmine flowers. On the beach. And all your family will come from Leghorn and mine from Cornwall. There'll be white linen blowing in the breeze and my father will cry and say, "all this". He'll sweep his arms out to encompass it all, satisfied. And my mother will wear a straw hat.

On summer nights you play the guitar and sing old Italian love songs about how beautiful I am, and brush my hair back from my face and kiss my fingers. I bring an old checkered tablecloth from under the stairs and we lie in the garden looking at the stars. You show me and tell me but I forget. I forget because you shine more brightly than any star. You are more breathtaking than any constellation or far off planet. You are real.

Every Sunday I stand in the garden near the bougainvillea and wave goodbye. Until your car is out of sight. I dance naked in the shower. I lay on the bed and listen to the cicadas tick, tick ticking their love songs, as the curtains ripple in the evening breeze. It's all so perfect.

The last thing you said was, "I have to go now". I know it sounds crazy, but sometimes I forget you're dead.