The Re-Awakening 01: The Sleep

Not so with Emily. Leaning against the bookcase was the ukulele I'd bought her one Christmas. On the bookcase itself, several volumes I'd given her: the Penguin edition of the complete William Blake; a leather-bound box set of George Eliot's novels; a coffee-table book of Monet paintings. And one I'd bought for us as a couple - 'The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women', by Tristan Taormino.

Dotted around, souvenirs from our holidays together. An 'I love NYC' baseball cap I'd bought her for a joke in Manhattan. A framed map of eighteenth-century Venice. The silver teapot we got from the souk in Marrakech.

And on the crowded dressing table, peeking out amid a forest of compacts, lipsticks, mascaras, hair-straighteners, mousses, deodorants and perfume bottles, was the jewellery box I'd given Emily for her twenty seventh birthday.

I'd been so excited when I spotted it, in an antique shop near my parents' house in Tewkesbury, knowing she'd like it, and being so pleased that despite my limited judgement and clumsy eye I'd somehow unearthed a piece of genuine aesthetic quality.

It was from the 1930s, and mahogany, with ornate metalworking and a set of the most perfectly elegant, felt-lined drawers. I remember how satisfying it was, simply opening and closing them, over and over.

Emily was just as thrilled by it as I'd hoped. Those were glorious moments, when she removed the wrapping paper and squealed in surprise and delight. I savoured my moment of triumph - in finally identifying something an artist truly recognised as authentic beauty.

I remember the pleasure she took in arranging all her jewellery inside it. The box had a mechanism which unfurled its tiered compartments, revealing unexpected extra layers. From within came decades-old scents of polish, varnish, and wood - sweet, and mysterious. We loved poking our noses inside.

"It smells of memories", Emily said.

All the jewellery kept in the box over so many years - we liked to imagine what it had signified to each generation of owners. Marriages and love affairs. Gifts. Comings-of-age. Births and deaths. What were the joys, sorrows, and secrecies, symbolised by the trinkets it once held? What kinds of love had this treasure chest known? We liked the idea that we were probably the first dykes to have it.

I looked at the box, now standing there on the dresser.

One day, it would pass into someone else's hands, and Emily would take her own place in its past. What would the next owner imagine of Emily? Of us? Would they picture her storing away the trinkets of my love?

Which is what she did. Emily put all the jewellery I gave her together in one dedicated compartment. Now, I stared at the box again, trying to bore through it with my eyes to see what she'd retained or discarded. Did she still have the solitaire diamond earrings I bought her for our first anniversary? Had she kept the cluster ring, my present to her one Valentine's Day? Or the reciprocal locket with our names etched inside?

Did she still have *her* engagement ring?

I couldn't imagine her selling them, no matter how much I knew she'd have needed the money.

Not everything Emily stored in there had monetary value. There were also The Lists.

I remembered the day we wrote them. It was the day we discovered why we loved each other.