I should have never pursued her. Something is happening.
I am living, with my friend and my daughter, next door to where she lives. My friend is (also) in love with you. I go next door (alone). It is early morning. You come to me and we embrace. You offer me breakfast and we talk. You are incredibly warm and tactile. Your hand hovers around my waist. I ask you questions as we move about the house: how long have you been here? How do you make money? (you are smiling and rolling your eyes as you describe the seasonal work you do in Blackpool) How much is your rent? (£300). You live with two women and a man – cardboard cut-outs of the four of you adorn the white wall of the immense vestibule. They seem peripheral, they drift about, and they are monumentally proportioned. You make us drinks and we sit together. Your chair is behind mine and we sit together watching the news on tv whilst sipping hot tea. Your chair is behind mine and the house is peaceful. Your hand is casually draped across the curve of my waist (I must be reclining). We occasionally speak. Our bodies are close. Your hand making contact with the side of my body charges it entirely. I know if I turn to you our faces will be aligned. I know if I turn to you our mouths and tongues will touch and be inflamed. I wake up still charged.