The young are walking on the riverbank arms around each other’s waist and shoulders, pretending to be looking at the waterlilies and what might be a nest of some kind, over there, which two who are clamped together mouth to mouth have forgotten about. The others, making courteous detours around them, talk, stop talking, kiss. They can see no one older than themselves. It’s their river. They’ve got all day.
— Fleur Adcock
Seeing’s not everything. At this very moment the middle-aged are kissing in the backs of taxis, on the way to airports and stations. Their mouths and tongues are soft and powerful and as moist as ever. Their hands are not inside each other’s clothes (because of the driver) but locked so tightly together that it hurts: it may leave marks on their not of course youthful skin, which they won’t notice. They too may have futures.