I woke to nothing.

No feeling in belly or balls. And while this happens every morning, the weight of myself carried on into breakfast so, trying to offset it with some Bartok folk dances, I took to considering again the reality of my desire for Helen. And perhaps it was, after all, as fake as my original intention. I left for work feeling heavy, unclean, incestuous toward myself and yet knowing, in every duplicitous cell of my body, that only a sexual resolution would provide clarity.

Again, the kitchen. She was wearing a pale thin skirt. Seeing her legs and sensing the skirt was a considered choice, I assumed the kettle and the cups with a confidence that if she spoke first we'd get straight to the point, and to her vulnerability.

I think you're ill.

She said this without meeting my eyes and so I knew then, for certain, we could be fucking by tea-time if we wanted. And yet, at this moment, her statement still required a response but I knew better than to invite any further comment on my illness for while it served as cover for our sexual plans, in all likelihood Helen probably does think I am mentally ill. Finally, tipping a little milk into her mug and far more concerned with maintaining our cover than her professional opinion of me, I arranged to see her at four.