It’s an odd question, and I stop and try to give her a thoughtful answer, but there isn’t one. Except maybe the grief at the death of my son. That’s something deep enough to suffocate you, and I’m not sure I’ve found the way out yet. But I don’t tell her that. I just say, ‘No, not really. You?’

‘Me neither.’

I ask what she means, and she tells me something vague about a friend in trouble. It sounds sort of false, so I don’t ask too many questions.

I make coffee in the plunger that hasn’t had a run for over a year, using coffee I can’t remember buying. It tastes okay. Elaine doesn’t complain. When I get up to remove the cups, she grabs my wrist, pulls me down to her, and puts her mouth on mine. It is pleasant and even arousing, but I’m still not sure I want it. She is undoing my shirt and kissing me, then opening her top and putting her arms around me. Her beauty is scary-powerful, but instead of giving in to the action, I kind of split in two. I take a seat outside myself somewhere in the air, and watch a guy (who is me), and a girl (Elaine) getting it on. They seem pretty well matched, although the girl is much more enthusiastic. You might say mad for it. There is kissing. There are clothes being removed, attended by various forms of grappling and stroking. They don’t look like they’re going to make it to the bedroom or the bed. And then I witness the man whisper, ‘Sarah,’ and it is like a hidden director has yelled, ‘Cut.’ The feverish need disappears, and both part and fall like collapsed tents, and I am back on the couch.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, although I don’t know if I am. I didn’t mean to say it, but I couldn’t help it.

‘It’s okay,’ she says, ‘I know these things take time.’ But she is getting up, putting her clothes back on briskly, as if I had walked in on her getting dressed. ‘Thanks so much for dinner.’

The emotion is forced, but I can’t think of anything to say to make it better. ‘Thanks for coming up. It was really nice.’ And then, as if I’d been involved in a different engagement, I say, ‘Perhaps we could do it again …’ Do what again? Disappoint each other?

‘Sure.’

And she is gone, still putting together her confidence.