Carnality carries you through the night and into the morning. By the time Erika has stopped struggling in her filthy prison you are exhausted. You slip into a deep sleep filled with vivid dreams. At one point you awaken covered in sweat from a dream of Amelie. Your soul engulfed hers and she burned bright as you saturated all the pathways of her mind and heart. You tasted her childhood, her joys, her explorations, and you swallowed her terror whole.

Sometimes you stop me flying away. You recognise the signs. Normally I’m calm, cogent, clever. I look you in the eye and there’s a smile in my body language, if not on my face. When it happens, you listen to me and help me. I think back to one time: I was trying to articulate how the world feels wrong, how nothing builds to anything, how loneliness feels like a Ponzi scheme built into us by an unkind designer.

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.

I’ve been quiet all morning. We had a wild night last night. You saw my primal side trot out to play and your backside is still tender to the touch. We cuddled in bed, remonstrated about the state in which we left the kitchen, living room and bedroom, and kissed as the rush hour traffic died down outside. But I’m quiet at the sink, mechanically washing up in my accustomed order: glass, plates, ironware, pots, the water starting off so hot the first items on the draining board are dry in seconds.