You know of only one way to make someone like you. And that’s to devour them. Hard to be more like you than when they’re part of you, hugging you as tight as fat beneath your skin. You never got back to sleep. You don’t sleep well unless you’re full, yet here you are with a belly groaning through the final stages of an immense feed still unable to sleep.

Amelie stops in front of a stall, clutching her breast. The piece that has caught her eye is a simple but massive beach towel, back on white, depicting the branches and roots of the tree of life emerging from the abstract figure of a woman in the trunk. Celtic designs frame it, placing it squarely in the style of a third of the artifacts here. The hippy market, one of many on the island, is a ranging, chaotic, overpriced and overcrowded procession of tat, souvenirs, clothing, wood and leather.

Breakfast is long, luxurious, and includes courses not available at the buffet. Amelie returns after a long absence with a room service trolley loaded with covered plates and glasses. She also comes wearing a floaty blue body-length sarong and a slightly shy, hungry smile. “It’s about time,” you begin. “I’m hung—” With a twitch of her shoulderblades, she reveals she is wearing nothing else. You watch the slinky fabric flow over her shoulder, the swell of her breasts, her wide hips, to pool around her feet.

The sun slows things down on San Antonio beach. The moon and the stars bring them back to life. You’re staring at them now, stretched out on a sunlounger. It’s a good thing it’s wooden: the white plastic ones wouldn’t cope well with the weight of two people. The clubs were in full swing when you finally went out. Some drama with the friends you traveled with delayed everything until you were itching to see some action.

I come to the door when you knock. Will I ever not smile when I first see you? I offer to take your coat, and when you point out you’re not wearing one, I offer to take your pants instead. You bap me on the shoulder and I place a kiss on your cheek. Music is coming from inside, and the scent of incense. An unfamiliar voice is singing to Billie Eilish, quite well.

Today is also the day. And tonight. And today. It’s days before putting in the fangs doesn’t make you excited beyond restraint. You strut naked through the house, you dance, you write, you paint. You slip out into the night, doing I don’t know what. I wonder if you’re hunting for the transfixed woman. I picture you taking other prey and cherish the jealousy it arouses in me. I wake at midnight to find your lips on my upper arm, framing your sharpened fangs.

After last time I’ve been more careful. At least, you haven’t had to come rescue me from any dreamworld creatures or demons. But you know I’ve been working. The first time you told me about astral feeding I almost exploded, veering erratically between cosmic horror, profound excitement, lust, and a kind of stillness that looked like an actual trauma response. Honestly, at the time you didn’t know what to make of it.

Today’s the day. This past week I’ve had a Project. Monday started with me excitedly showing you the contents of an Amazon box: three pairs of high-quality fangs, and a Dremel. “We’re going to give you your teeth.” I could see your excitement, and then your anxiousness about the dangers and whether it would work and whether it would live up to your hopes. We talked about it, decided where research was needed, and now today’s the day.

I got us opera tickets a while back and have been insufferable since. As the date drew nearer I began spontaneously singing snippets of songs from Carmen and telling you about this one show where the eponymous heroine first appeared on stage in a gorilla suit and did a strip-tease. Even last week I saw you laugh or smile or sing along in response to my joking around, but recently you’ve been more distant, a little sharper.

It’s been a few days since we’ve seen one another. It’s unusual for me to be absent like this. I’m not great at responding to text messages at the best of times but it takes half a day for me to respond to your check-in. When I text to ask if you can meet me at mine it’s a bit inconvenient. You’re a little annoyed at my disappearing act and you’re considering saying no to teach me a lesson, but my next message piques your curiosity.