There’s a way you drape inside a door frame that, when done at the proper time, has a 60% chance of making a woman melt. Forearm up the frame, you cock your hips a little to show off your figure (toned or pudgy), and incline your shoulders and face towards your prey. The pose brings raw physicality and your gaze is intensified in a way you can hear adds ten beats per minute to the heartrate.

In retrospect it was a miscalculation to give you a feast half an hour from the car. Digestion fuzziness made you slow and giggly. You hung off my arm and made jokes, then after a while started asking how much further the walk was. The walk was at least an opportunity to settle your busy stomach: you spent quite a bit of time burping under your breath. At the car I held your hand as you eased yourself into the passenger seat.

“Tell me again,” you say, for the twentieth time clawing your hair out of your eyes as the wind snatches at it, “why you thought you’d make a clifftop picnic in a hurricane?” My grin is only slightly forced. “Blow out the cobwebs, innit.” The wind is onshore so we’re in no danger as we walk the cliffside path by late afternoon light. I’m wearing my #3 backpack, a blue thing about the height of my entire torso that has aluminium rails in the back and clips comfortably about my hips.

A knock on your door makes you jerk awake. You look around yourself hurriedly and see papers spread over cards and an open grimoire. Looks like you had an idea and chased it as far as you could before exhaustion caught up. Another knock. “Raven? Are you okay?” “Mmh,” you grunt, having failed to part your lips on the first attempt. Your temples ache like you’ve been grinding your teeth all night.

I’ve been thinking about times you shocked me. There are hundreds, for all sorts of reasons. This one in retrospect makes me smile. It was quite early morning when you bust into my house and gave me a heart attack. I was crossing the unlit living room by memory, dressed in dressing gown and holding a glass of water, when the front door slammed open. You strode in without hesitation, stomping violently.

You check your location on Google maps, check the building in front of you, then sigh. Twenty storeys high, glass-fronted, security on the ground floor and heavier security on the thirteenth. And which floor are you going to be spending time on, this early night? The thirteenth. It’s another “favour” for a “friend”. When you owe a favour to that sort of “person” it’s always good to discharge that favour quickly.

(The woman who gave you an extra bagel when you ordered two. She was happy to meet for coffee, and in an upstairs nook you warded for privacy, she settled down and melted inside a belly still pudgy with the girl from Whitby.) It’s funny. As you put on weight you still catch people’s eyes. It’s just different people. Paula is a friend of a friend. She has just finished her PhD in religious semiotics and you surprised her by having something to say about alternative scripture.

Following your meal you slip into a deep sleep. You don’t stir no matter how rough I am with your belly. And I am a little rough. Your dinner’s bones are harder than I expected, and I want her through your system as quick as possible. You’ve mentioned to me a couple of times having a soul sloshing around inside you. I always pictured something like a glowing liquid in your belly, melted down from a little Casper the Friendly Ghost style thing.

I kissed your blindfolded face, cheek, cheek and forehead, and lay you back on the couch. While from inside your gut came the angry thunder of an expert digestive system expected to be content with fast food you felt the bonds at your hands go slack. “Lie back. Rest a while. I’ll be back soon with a treat.” You felt the cold metal of the paramedic shears touch your forearm, and I guided your hand to let you know where they were set down, in case you needed to free your feet and calves in a hurry.

We were gaming, right. You were lying on the couch, podged from a McDonalds run that saw the store manager confirm that, yes, we would like fifteen double cheeseburgers. You were playing through Thief, my favourite game series, and complaining that the pov character could look and sound like you and her sneak-attack should cause… well, it writes itself. And I, massaging your legs idly where they were draped over me on the couch, couldn’t help but agree that would be great but insist that this is the game we’re playing so please let’s enjoy what’s there already…