I have no use for stress. No, I can't be doing with it. It's a failure of priority and, frankly, I have never failed to put myself first. And so it was with some surprise that I woke this morning to find that yesterday's concern for Helen had translated into a rash upon my arm. Following a wonderfully ordinary shit to a rather overrated Krommer concerto, I decided to refrain from a medical intervention, preferring to explore my dermatological issues more directly. Sitting neatly at her desk, Helen was reading a novel. Her bare arm and thin, pale wrist aroused me quickly, but I was annoyed by the novel, aware that until I knew what she reading, I would be unable to concentrate on seducing her. This is undeniably a delicate business. To secretly discover the title would enhance my desire, whereas a literary discussion would destroy it. She closed the book and seeing it was the latest Ian McEwan I was undisturbed, if slightly disappointed. I was aware that in trying to seduce Helen I was trying to resolve for myself the matter of her health. My deluded idea was that if she acquiesced, she was fine. If she didn't, it was very likely cancer. She spoke first, saying she hadn't missed me. I took this as an invitation to touch her breast. I eased my hand into her bra, holding her nipple, aware I could easily slip my hand between her thighs and under her skirt. The memory came of Axel's party and the several hundred breasts I saw that night and, remembering it, drew me closer to Helen. I felt her breath on my arm and the wholeness of that moment stilled us. I went to scratch the rash on my other arm and realised, woefully late, that testing her in this ridiculous way was serving my own, ancient wounds. My own dead mother and me, aged nine, had entered the room. Helen saved us both, saying she had a client coming. And I was freed for the bliss of scratching my arm to bits.