I found myself wondering what would happen if I fucked this man. I would insist we went to his room, not mine. I would have him lie flat on his back to make sure his gut was out of the way. I wondered whether he’d have a condom and whether I’d ask him to use it.

And afterwards: would he be the sort of man to flush it? Or would he slide it off and let it drop to the floor?

Then I wondered: if I were a dog, would I eat him? I thought of the dogs I feed here, of their bald pink patches, their dusty eyes, the way I’ve seen them lap hopefully at plastic. They would eat him without hesitation.

The man ground his cigarette out against the pool’s edge. He’d only smoked half of it. I watched as he slapped a mosquito and checked his hand for blood.

Yes, I thought. I’d eat him. But only the best parts, the softest parts. The rest I’d leave for dogs who were truly starving; dogs a little hungrier than me.

Hold Your Fire

While waiting for his faecal transplant, my husband wasn’t as fun as he used to be. This was largely due to the changes in his diet. He had to be strict. He was down to eating chicken breasts poached in unseasoned water, and a small variety of baby vegetables. Baby carrots, baby corn, baby beets.

‘Why only baby vegetables? How is baby corn different from corn?’ I was being peevish. I couldn’t help myself.

‘It’s what the doctor said. I can’t take any chances.’

I stared while he cut the piece of baby corn into three, chewing each piece the recommended twenty-five times. I actually counted the movements of his jaw. Twenty-five, right on the money, every time.

I knew that I should take his condition more seriously. The last time Connor had thrown caution to the wind – it was his birthday, he ate a chicken parmigiana and a tiramisu and nearly wept with the joy of it – he’d had to run home from the train station the next morning because, without warning and in considerable volume, he’d shat his pants.

He’d grown wan like a wilting lily on this new diet. It wasn’t just the pallor and the weight loss, which left him looking bent, like his head was too heavy for his body. It was that he’d lost shape and definition, muscle mass. I felt I might accidentally skim a bit of him off, the way you can chip part of a mushroom away without really meaning to.