Start as we mean to go on....

Well, I did love. I loved completely. My love was an artist; twinkly eyed and self absorbed, he held me inside him for almost a year. But then, then. I don't know how it happened, but the space I had always occupied inside him wasn't mine anymore. He had taken it back, and I had become the intrusive lodger. I left. He begged. I still left.
It was a fist to the gut, doing that to us. The bruise was black and ugly, and stayed on me for a long time afterward. I was sore for a long time.

We met in a park. I was desperately searching the depths of my gigantic handbag for a light for the cigarette clamped between my lips, he shoved a pink one under my nose. There was a silver ring on his index finger, his nails were dirty. He said, 'better?' I said, 'yes'. He gave me that lighter, I've still got it.
I saw him again the next day - well, I did that thing where you go back to the same place to see if they're there which is very nearly random chance, if not bona fide - and we introduced ourselves. It's Sam. And that was it.