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dreamt it. Adrenalin surged as a slide show of Nancy played out in candid stills, progressing to the final shot, a flapping penalty notice on Fritz's windscreen. The clock by the bed blinked 8.15, this hadn't happened yet but it surely would, just like Nancy's notion; she didn’t seem to be the type to fall at the last hurdle, having got up such a head of steam.
     
    I glanced at the Remy chrysalis.  “I'm late for work” I lied, jumping into yesterday's telling pants and hoisting on my jeans. Tearing out of the flat and pelting at a pace towards Seven Sisters, unclear why I running  when I could have caught a bus. Something propelled me, arms and legs pumped by an ulterior entity like the six million dollar man ('Gentlemen, we can rebuild him').
     
    Stamping pigeons into flurry and vaulting puddles. “Merry Christmas, Shopping Mall!”, I shouted in my head, skirting Nag's Head market. Blackstock Road, a memory in minutes, I pelted up Highbury Hill. Normally I hated running, grinding my knees and juddering my face, but I was bounding boundless, flying in fact, sprinting up Palladian Road, touching Fritz's bonnet for luck.
     
    Slowing to a jog, scaling the steps two at a time, I drew back the heavy knocker, but anticipating the noise, replaced it soundlessly. Inside, stairs clubbed in haste. The front door swung open a crack. A cascade of curly coils showed, then retreated like a sniper.
     
    “Well?” I panted. “Have you got it out of your system?”
     
    “No”, the plaintiff reply. With that, an outstretched hand grabbed the front of my shirt and hauled me in. Bitter coffee and cigarettes as if she'd been up all night. She mauled my mouth ferociously, only pulling away to announce that she couldn't stop thinking about me. She moaned this like an animal.
     
    Pushing me up against the wall with freak strength, she ripped open my shirt, sending buttons skittering to the skirting and a standard lamp crashing to the floor. Mouths locked, we sidled along the hall as if I were feeding her oxygen in an underwater scene. Gathering herself, she led me up the stairs. I reached between her legs and cupped my hand on her crotch and she held it there for the ascent.
     
    Of course I knew what was happening, but still panting from the run a sizeable part of me had yet to catch up. We sat on the bed and she fumbled with my buckle and zip. Yanking at my clothes, she screamed in frustration; her pyjama bottoms and t-shirt had presented no such problems. Now naked before me, her curls falling around her bare shoulders and circling her dark nipple like a monocle.
     
    Her eyes drank in my bra. Tightening her fingers around the fabric, she tugged it down. Her mouth fastened on my nipple, sucking it keenly and helping it with her hand. Now the part of me that had previously been delayed burst into the room, flustered.
     
    We set about each other in a rigorous bout and approximately five minutes later had assumed nearly every position. In the same way a dog can't hold a ball and a frisbee in its mouth at the same time, a decision had to be made.
     
    “Hey, hey” I said, stopping her with my body, pinning her wrists. She bucked beneath me and then eased up against my inertia.
     
    “What?” she said “Am I not sexy?”
     
    I smiled. “You're the sexiest thing I've ever seen, but Nancy, you don't have to set out your stall all at once; it's not the January sales”.
     
    From a pouting zero, her mouth broke into a broad, lascivious smile, dilated pupils contracted, predator like, allowing the green more limelight. Flowing under me.
     
    “Show me” she said.
     
     
    Three hours later, opposite M8 in Wendyland, our favoured greasy spoon in Hornsey Rise, a parking ticket in my back pocket.
     
    “M8, you are glowing with a bluey whiteness I've never seen before; I trust your assignation went well”. We curdled into giggles over milky coffees.
     
    “Indeed M8, thank you for asking. I'm all of a tizz, on account of just