Amelie bought the beach towel with the tree of life on it and sunbathed on it by the pool for the rest of the afternoon. Most of the branches and roots have to be tucked under the sunlounger so that she can lie on the trunk, over the figure of the woman in the centre. As a joke you wrap it around her while distracting her with a long kiss. When she realises what you’re doing she begins to struggle, shrieking and looking for all the world like someone resisting being thrown against their will into a pool.

You stir awake. A noise? Did you hear a noise? I’m next to you in your bed, back snuggled up to you. No matter which orientation we start in, I always wake up facing away. I tell you I’m guarding you, or overheating, depending on how serious I’m being at the time. The noise again. I make a noise like I’m clearing my throat, and then shivering. Almost a whimper. I’ve been having them more frequently lately, after the mishap with the grimoire.

I’m actually trying to draw you. We’re both a bit drunk, though the takeaway is soaking up a bit of the alcohol. You are lounging on your bed with a dramatic hand to your forehead and a two-takeaway swell to your tummy. “Paint me like one of your French girls,” you say, for the eleventh time today, since it only seems to get funnier to you. I’ve long since stopped reacting but you laugh so hard you get hiccups.

… I’m giving you The Look, which you generally kind of pretend-ignore to make me force whatever point I’m trying to make. You’ve not left the house in a couple of days and I’m promising ice cream if you do. I’m a little perturbed when you’re out of it enough to just go along with The Look, grabbing a midi dress and a summer hat. Your figure is slim, it having been a couple of days since that jogger by the canal.

Like, maybe you’ve gone out and wound up getting a bit drunk, having a good time meeting people. Problems happened when a couple who were interested in you went past flirting into heavy suggestion. Maybe you were interested, but they didn’t know that your appetites are linked. By the time I pull up the man has long since been crushed into submission, his meat sloughing from his bones into the pit inside you.