We were sitting in a quaint Indian restaurant, dimly lit with only one other table occupied. It was the sort of place where the staff attend to you as if they're afraid you'll walk out if they so much as glance away.

We swiped at curries with our frighteningly garlicky naan, enjoying the food and the attentive service around our dinner chatter.

Over our empty plates we discussed the possibility of dessert. He lurched into a rant that—judging by the intensity of his tone—was of great importance to the both of us, if not the world itself.

"The key to good vanilla ice-cream is its texture," he told me, like he was divulging the meaning of life. "When it's too creamy, I don't enjoy it as much—but when it has that iciness, like frozen yoghurt, it tastes better." He proceeded to deduce that one might say the best vanilla ice-cream is that which tastes like vanilla-flavoured frozen yoghurt.

I watched him carefully throughout the spiel, amused by the vigour of his delivery. The rapid-fire descriptions, the animated hand gestures. We could talk this way about anything, really. He had a habit of defying the mundane nature of ordinary life. My heart would race around his words, pacing alongside sentences spoken with a wild resonance. The way he launched into an opinion or an observation—eyes wide and set on my face—it was captivating in a way I'd never known.

I'd always hoped for someone who could find the value in little things, or if not the things themselves, the act of dissecting those little things.

As I listened to the supposed bliss that is adequately icy ice-cream, I realised in an abrupt moment of clarity how dearly I loved this person.

HG.