So, with one of Ammerbach's rather more florid and, possibly, lesser known works dancing in my ears, I left for work this morning with an air of dreaminess that I sensed could turn, in an instant, into a wayward and relentless cruelty. I decided to nurture the dreaminess, keep it close and, when it turned, ensure Gareth was in sight. Within minutes I was in the kitchen, joyfully making him coffee. We spoke of his Humanistic supervisor and we bonded over his stupidity while I invented an acquaintance of similar disposition and, sharing, we denigrated them both. It was delightful. However, I was aware of Gareth simply dying to inform me of something terrible. I also sensed he was torn between the pleasure of hurting me, and maintaining his joy over my ignorance. I could feel the ecstasy of finding the balance between the two was clearly a fulcrum he played with as a child. Always disastrously intrusive, forever grabbing his father's dick, or hiding under his mother's skirts. And it was then, picturing the boy Gareth, that I imagined the horror of what he was aching to say. I suddenly understood it could relate to Helen and, quite possibly, her health. I could see the psychological ecstasy for Gareth in telling me that Helen, his maternal imago was, in fact, dying and that I, her ostensible partner, am so unnecessary as to be barely worth informing. I could see Gareth had waited his whole life to say this. Holding his mug, and opening his mouth, he lunged toward me. Using my coffee to stall him, I stepped forward and swinging my elbows, propelled myself out of the room. Helen was off today so I spent a couple of hours trying to contact her. For lunch, I threw open the window, lit a pipe of O and promptly forgot about them both.