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eye then, what does that mean? Fine, he says – voice all turned down – What the fuck is it to me? And he does it then. Jesus. And again. And again. Until I cry but now he’s not asking how I am. Just fucks like I said. His breath showing work and some gratification at what he does, in and to me but only for himself. I can’t tell how long until – so far in – the gritting and fucking starts becoming every sex sound I’ve ever heard, all at once in my ear, while his body works through every single thing it wants. And mine, in his best moment, silent, accepts the mess it’s made.
    There you go, he says breathing hard and, quicker than I expect, pulls himself out. Straight off the bed and condom. Snap.Tossed at the bin. Bit of blood there, he says showing a streak on his palm. Then, all lank impassive, lifts an old bathrobe and goes on out the door.
    I lie in the pain. Climb his cities of books. Hand between my legs. The wet, true, blood. So that’s done and something wrecked, what should I do next?
    Where’s your toilet? I ask. End of the hall. Here take this, and he slips the robe off You never know who you’ll meet down there. No looking at me either, just for his underwear, and not finding, takes his trousers instead. And the toilet roll, you better take that too.
    Murderous landing. TV lights on the floor. Go in. Hover. Piss and blood in the dark and wish I’d never have to face him again. Clothes though. Bag and girl aren’t you a woman – sore woman – now? But still.
    I knock. Just come in. He is cigarette lit. Tap in a kettle. I couldn’t find the sink. No there isn’t one, use this, let me get out of your way. Strangers were and strangers again. He’s only over there but we are back in his wild room and I am vanished punished. My blood on his bed that he kicks the duvet over before making tea. Wash my face. I’d like to more but not so near. Redd out my knickers with the tights rolled in. Quick unpick and put them on. Bra. Dress. Thanks for the dressing gown. No problem, sugar? Actually, I’m going to head. And this the what turns him Do you know your way back? Sort of, I’ll find it. No I’ll walk you    it’s late. You don’t need to. It’s not a big deal, I’ll get dressed. No, no, I Irish insist. Fuck’s sake, he says It’s after one and this is Saturday night in Camden. I’m not leaving you to wander about on your own, have the tea then we’ll go. And calm again as quick as he wasn’t but has kicked all the spit from my row. Alright. So clear off those books and sit, sugar?Please. Milk? Yes. Strindberg hits the floor and me his chair. He passes the tea, sits on the bed, lights then offers a cigarette and stares at the smoke between. All in the air though, new music What’s that? Schoenberg, he says Transfigured Night. Are you taking the piss? Certainly not, he laughs. But laughs. It’s beautiful, I say. Yeah I think it is, I often play it here when I’m by myself. So sit we. Separate. Years apart while the night turns itself, in his forty watt, into waste and into past. I tip tongue to questions but he is closed eyes and I know what I did. Here’s the room though, where done though. Remember everything. And I do not expect his Just stay – at the end – It’s so late you might as well. Hmm in my manners, and really still for a flee but it’s knackeredness overrules any thoughts of my blood on his sheet. Alright, I say. Standing up and lamp off.
    He at the wall. I the edge. Back to. Sheet damp. Far light bleeds on the litter floor alongside. Gas bud glow. How long until he sleeps I wonder? And if he wonders that about me too? Him that done – stranger of a man who perfectly knows I have failed the perfect game. Where was stoicism? That much I’d relied upon but had not, in the end. Useless you are useless. Sting the eye and fill it up. He shifts.