Last night, back late from work, I opened the box of Rococo milk chocolate sea salt wafers you gave me. They are thin, imperfect discs, almost translucent in places, crack satisfyingly when you bite into them, in the mouth they are silky chocolate, salty undercurrent. I think of you as they melt on my tongue, of a time we were by the sea together, Nice 2009, pebbles beneath us, swimming in the blue Mediterranean, salty hair, skin when we get back to the hotel. Or a windswept Suffolk beach, bright sunlight, sand, cold water, the white dome of Sizewell B in the distance.
I eat three, slowly, lingering over each. They were delicious.