White poplar means time.

He walked three metres behind, eyes fixed on my back. I didn't care where I walked.

The drizzle left my forehead damp and my hair a nest of glistening droplets, hanging in the night air like a warm blanket. Petrichor drifted up from the pillows of autumn leaves on the sidewalk.

We'd just had dinner at a dingy Japanese eatery, slightly off the main road. The restaurant was empty save one other couple. It was well past what could be considered conventional dinnertime.

He'd ordered a plate of gyoza to share, and they arrived in a hot plate the size of a pizza box, each one fat and greasy, sizzling in its own oil. The aroma of fried dumpling skin was irresistible but I'd lost my appetite. I wanted to walk. I picked dutifully at the offerings and he'd ordered a beer. I declined a drink and he fretted that the date wasn't progressing well. I could tell; his forehead furrows in a way I can't explain but have since memorised, his eyes between myself and the door wondering whether I would get up and leave any minute, or whether he should.

Dinner was a short affair. We left the restaurant after 20 minutes, and meandered through smaller and smaller streets until we were incidentally facing a graffitied alleyway, off Chinatown. Our only light sources were appropriately tacky red lanterns, strung between the two rooftops, illuminating the dustbins in the far corner.

'Aren't you coming?' I asked. He hesitated. 'It doesn't look safe.'

'Why, are you scared?' I mocked - then relented. 'There's a bar on the other side. I promise. And if we get attacked in this alleyway, don't worry - I'll protect you.'

He muttered something under his breath, thought you didn't want a drink, or it might've been, thought you didn't drink. Either would've been true; I wasn't much for alcohol when we were in a relationship.

I'd lied; it was several alleyways further down that we found the place. Flashing red neon lights lit the way. Beakers and conical flasks artfully lined the back wall, filled with unidentifiable coloured liquids, illuminated against the bare brick. This time, we were the only patrons. I seated myself at a booth, crossed my legs, and noticed a tear in the leather. Picking mindlessly at the stuffing, 'Would you like a drink?'

He slid into the booth opposite me, jittery like a nervous meerkat, caged, lonely without its friends. I insisted, but he refused, saying that he had to drive later. Suit yourself. I tiptoed up to the bar and ordered a cocktail.

'That'll be $12, darling,' the bartender said. She had hair greener than meadow grass, straightened to dry straw, in endearing pigtails. Her lips were stained plum purple, and a nosering wriggled distractingly when she breathed. She wore striped tights, Alice-In-Wonderland style.

I gave her my card, and she looked at me.

'There's a surcharge on card - but you know what. It's a quiet Tuesday night; you can have it on the house.' In that moment, I could've kissed her. She jerked her head towards my 'date', slouching in his seat, blue light from his phone disrupting the aesthetic. 'He bothering you?'

I shook my head.

'Don't let boys push you around. You know, when push comes to shove, they're all talk. They ain't got no balls. So don't let him get in your way.' She turned around, resuming polishing the glassware. 'You let me know when he wants to order a Diet Coke, or a babyccino, hey, hun?'

I dared him to come upstairs, to the second floor.

It was a rundown, unused gymnasium that could now be hired out as a function space. The lights were off as we ascended, him pausing halfway to ask if we were trespassing, and me denying it without turning around. 'There's something I want to show you,' I'd said.

Illuminated only from the outside, the space was even eerier through the frosted glass windows. Gymnastic rings dangled from metal chains, long and short, haphazard. One plastic potplant sat in a sorry corner, lifeless. Graffiti, not like the graffiti art that plastered the buildings on our way in, but callous tags, jagged and angular, polluted the yellowing walls.

But this was my favourite: a broken wheelchair, mounted by its handles on an off-angle. Like an angry asylum inpatient had hauled it up there in a fit of psychosis. Positioned in the corner, above the entrance, so that a careless observer might miss it - only to see the shadows of its spokes stretch like spiders across the walls as city lights outside blink on and off.

'Isn't it beautiful?' I grinned, perhaps wickedly. 'Isn't it just perfect?'

In all sincerity, I thought it was. Everything from the dust on the plastic leaves to the scuffs and scratches on the floorboards only contributed to the aesthetic of the room. It even smelt musty. I imagined into existence the squeaking of rats; of course, there were none.

'Let's get outta here,' he said.

So then, we walked.

I was unfazed by his reaction. Nothing could dampen this mood, this wide-eyed baby-like wonder, this blueish-grey tinted innocence. Nothing could touch me, safety enveloped in a blanket of mist, under the watchful eyes of city streetlamps and gaudy lanterns.

I led us through a city garden, heading towards its centrepiece, a water fountain. Skeletal branches of oak and plane trees intertwined, forming an arching canopy overhead; white poplars lined the walkways like sentries on watch. White poplars, I thought, meant time. On the left, the state museum and its facades of glass; on the right, an old nineteenth-century pavilion, a flagpole protruding from its domed ceiling, lit up by spotlight. In front of that, was the white fountain.

I love the sound of all water - the trickling tinkle of a shallow stream, the deep rumbling of an unsettled sea, the relentless pounding of rain against concrete (hard enough to see it bounce), and the generous gurgling of a well-fed fountain, the plop into the waiting pool below. I sat on the rim, trench coat crumpled in my lap and warm autumn rain soaking through my paper-thin dress. I motioned for him to sit beside me - but he stood, watching me, with desolate eyes.

'You've changed,' he said, 'haven't you?'

I remember a story someone told me, about riding through this park on a motorcycle, before dawn on a winter morning. He'd worn wool under his riding gloves and a balaclava under his helmet, and he was cold and he was late. The fog was thick like milk; he could see barely two feet in front of him. In that moment, he felt the urge to ride, wind in his face, free, through the silent park - and so he stripped off his double-gloving, ripping off his headgear and with it the balaclava, and opened himself up to the cold. His knuckles turned pale then blue, frozen in place around his handles. The air pierced his cheeks, a thousand needles; his eyes watered. He rode for two or three blocks before putting his protection back on. But, he said afterwards, it was the most magical minute of my life.

On that warm autumn night, I felt the veins in his fingers melt, felt the stinging sensation subside, and the reinstation of wool against my skin. I wanted to tell him, wrapped in safety, that I'd learnt a new appreciation, and that I'd never felt happier. I knew he smelled - had always smelled - of fresh showers and spice, refreshing, like a gin and tonic with a slice of lemon. And I knew, pressed against his jacket, I could drink it in right there and then. But I was pressed against the fountain, surrounded by a bed of white and pink roses in full bloom, covered in glittering dewdrops, their petals outstretched, sending their perfume into the sky. I was already drunk, on flowers.

'Yes,' I said softly, 'I know.'