Rekindling an old romance, even for a few hours, is a byzantine affair. I’d almost kissed him in the cab, but was enjoying the tension too much: that small window of time when you know that it is on, that it is indubitable, but there’s also a slim chance the world or the vehicle could blow up in the meantime. It’s the Christmas Eve of hooking up.

In the lounge, Art sat down. And very nearly put me off.

‘I know this must be very strange for you, me being back here.’

‘Strange for me?’

‘I know it must be harder for you, out there. You’re such a catch, though, Jenny.’

Reader, I fucked him anyway.

I straddled him on the sofa – clumsy at first and then all-encompassing. He hadn’t shaved in days and the stubble was invigorating. I knew exactly how to put my lips on his lips, precisely how to put my tongue into his mouth. He stiffened.

He had lost weight. There were nubs where no nubs had been previously. There were juts and corners. I kissed them all. I reacquainted myself with his penis. I took my time. I didn’t want him to go down on me because it made him feel too far away.

He fell asleep in my arms, in our old bed, that too-big bed that had been too big before he moved out. I felt him take his penultimate pre-slumber breath, a big hard deep one, and then relax on the outbreath – a huge sigh, like a child does after they’ve been sobbing.

I lay awake, listening to him breathing.

We woke up the same way. ‘Babes in the wood,’ I said, and he laughed, and his breath was foul, and I didn’t care. It was his old foul breath and it would be coming out of him until the wrinkles on his face sank into trenches and I would breathe it in and out and it would take me closer to the inevitable rushing personal death of myself in a world of unwelcome. Sunlight spilled through the blinds. His toe ticked against my heel. I wondered whether we would have sex again. I wondered whether I should allow myself to want to. I wondered whether I just wanted him to want to. He got up to make coffee.

As I was sitting on the toilet, I felt around inside the pockets of his jeans, which were on the floor, and found a black kirby grip. I looked at it for a while, thinking about time and how no one is ever anyone’s.

I got fully dressed because that felt the least presumptuous thing to do. We sat down together at the too-big wooden table in the kitchen. I picked up a teaspoon and stirred my coffee but I didn’t put milk in. I was still harbouring a wild desire to seem different; to seem new. Black coffee was a start.