We’re back at the hotel. We were chatting about everything and nothing but got less casual as we got closer to the building. You caught me looking at you and biting my bottom lip a few times, something you know I do when I’m really focused on your physicality. You’re not above giving me a little wiggle, letting me know you know I’m looking. I lead you through the door. “Alice,” I say, taking your hands.

“In no family or culture is it tradition to stop and get an ice-cream every time you pass an ice-cream van.” “But in miiiine it is,” you say, whining playfully as you stare longingly at the third Mr Whippy we’ve passed. Beside us the sand stretches on, circling lazily around a broad bay, terminating in distant headlands. “Don’t you want to watch me eat ice-cream? I know you like it.”

Maybe tonight. I swing my legs off the bed too and walk to the bathroom door. Light bleeds around the edges. My heart is pounding as I stand outside it, willing myself to knock, to break this taboo. Then the door opens in front of me. You find me blinking in the light, looking vaguely nervous, but my lips have the tight set they get when I’m determined about something.

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.

I look sheepish. “This is technically a little dangerous. But I tested it on myself first.” “If it’s dangerous it’s more likely to hurt you, you idiot.” I grin and kiss your knitted brows. “A&E would fix me up fine. We’re not sure if they’d find anything incriminating inside you, though.” It’s been two hours since you swallowed the curiously heavy marble in its waxy, hermetic plastic. I’ve been tappy-tapping on my laptop while you write long-hand in a pad, the perfect picture of alone-together comfort.

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.

You can’t tell if it’s warm in your room or if the heat is coming from inside you. Digestion is an energy-intensive process and your body has been putting in the energy for four hours now. The cute red-headed woman who is the unfortunate recipient of this attention has long since stopped struggling. Your chest is feeling less constricted: especially plump or plentiful prey will sit high in your middle and compress your lungs.

It’s three in the morning when I shake you gently awake. You look up, shaking off vague dreams of building a house with tall walls, and it takes a little while to orient yourself. “Bluh? What’s the matter?” I’m doing that thing where I’m looking at you like I’m the luckiest man in the world again. At least you think I am. Your eyes are not quite focusing despite your excellent night vision, and you can feel that your hair is sticking at right angles where you slept on it.

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.

Do you remember our first date? We’d got talking after noticing one another for a solid week at the train station. I’ve always been able to talk to anyone and not take a stranger’s rejection personally. It’s a good thing, too. If I had shit on your shoes, I don’t think I could have provoked a more puzzled, disgusted, annoyed expression from you. All I’d said was that the universe was clearly hinting we should meet.

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.

… We pass police cars as we drive out of Burnsall. You’re not worried, telling me no one even believes what it is you do. I put my hand on your belly, wedged between your spine and the dashboard, and feel the powerful muscles of your stomach rhythmically contract, breaking down the youth I dared to jump. The vibration of the engine helps the process. The body is almost slop when I choose to pull us over by a tea room in a little village.

After you came to visit me, whatever devil had been driving me seemed to dissipate. We spent the next day together, it being one of those long lazy mornings that turns into evenings, with you appreciating not being required to move your newly acquired bulk too much. Talking, playing games, watching things on your phone—these all were interspersed with long, luxurious tummy rubs, helping ease the growing digestive discomfort as your body worked on the previous day’s meal.

I stagger through the door, clinking with two carrier bags of bottles. Spirits. Some are started, brought from my place; some I’ve bought special. “Cocktails,” is how I greet you. “Okay,” you agree. I lay out what we’ve got, from advocaat to Zinfandel, which I admit I only bought because I didn’t know a spirit beginning with z to fit that joke. It’ll go for sangria. You like sangria? I start mixing some up, handing you some oranges and apples to slice.

… 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.