'My lover was 16 years younger than me. And it was perfect.'

We met on a dancefloor.

He had come with mutual friends, and, somehow, dancing with the group, the tall curly-haired Dutchman and I fell into a playful double act. Mirroring each other’s hammy moves, communicating only through movement. Wordlessly, in true meet-cute style, our orbit spun closer. He was leaning down, l was stretching up. No awkwardness, no nose bumping. Just a smooth, transition. Two to one.

We went home together that night, and talked all the next morning. About books and writing and philosophy. I confessed to being terrified of maths; he wanted to show me how beautiful logic could be. That first day, my new lover beamed down at me before he hopped on the number 19 tram.

“Let’s make plans,” he said. “Something better than dinner and a movie.” So we agreed to see each other the following day. To lie in bed and read and work each other out.

But neither of us was looking for anything permanent. I was negotiating an ill-defined long-distance relationship, and he had a girlfriend back in the Netherlands… where he would return in less than six months. We laid that on the table from the start. It wasn’t cheating; both of us had agreed with our long-distance lovers that it was best to see other people. Honesty was our default.

There was also a big age gap. After a few perplexing comments, I took a closer look at the steady man I’d assumed was in his early thirties, just a few years younger than me. “How old are you?” I finally asked him. He batted the question back. I looked at his wide lips and direct gaze. “How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t want to insult you,” he said, finally. “But I think you might be… 30?”

I nearly choked. “That’s an insult?” I looked at him again, at the smooth skin around his eyes, his unlined jaw. He said he was 23; 16 years my junior. I made him show me his passport. Then I mentally put my running shoes on.

“I just don’t think our age difference is a good enough reason to end things,” he told me bluntly over the phone later. “We really like each other. Why not enjoy that?”

And he held firm. Whenever I felt uncertain, wanted to cut him out peremptorily, he’d hold me, concerned, thoughtful.

“Look, I understand if you want to get on with your life. That’s fine. But let’s talk about it. Tell me what you’re feeling, what you need. I want you to be happy. Just don’t shut me out.”

When it became clear that my long-distance relationship was not going in the direction I’d hoped, he supported me. Discussed the issues. Helped me cope with the fall out.

There were still misunderstandings. And miscommunications. But we never argued; never fought. And I encouraged him to talk to me about his girlfriend back home. I wanted to know more about her. About their relationship. Because she meant a lot to him. And he was starting to mean a lot to me.

Halfway through our time together, he turned 24. All he wanted for his birthday, he said, was a single word. A cheeky challenge for a woman that leaks so many.

Later, reading an essay by the humourist David Sedaris, I found it. Lebensabschnittsgefahrter. A German word that roughly translates to ‘Slice of Life Partner’.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

We stayed together for more than five months – all the time he had left in Australia. Goodbye was in the DNA of our relationship, but it was still hard. On our last day we hugged and kissed and promised we’d talk. Online. As friends.

He left me a letter. Not a goodbye letter, he stressed. More words to remember us by.

“The nuances of a lebensabschnittsgefahrter love are not well described in our cultural heritage,” he wrote. “Small How-To books might have made it easier… You and your temporary lover, answers to common questions such as How meaningful are temporary relationships?”

Our “in the field training” had taught us that they were meaningful… and something more.

“Love is not something that you do for a reward, but just because you can’t help it, whatever the time left between the two of you.”