You lifted your mug, which was white with a large black letter ‘S’ on the front. As I turned mine to take a sip, I noticed it had the letter ‘L’. I swivelled it back around.

‘Actually, I think I’ve got some biscuits.’ You placed the tea back down and stood. Carried on talking as you left the room. ‘Oh, and get prepared so I can look at that foot on my return.’ Then from the hall you shouted, ‘You like chocolate, right?’

‘Yes . . . if it’s milk?’ I bent to undo my laces. ‘Trousers as well?’

‘Of course.’

Removing my shoes, I was thankful Dale had ‘sorted me out’ when I was laid up, as this time my socks were without holes. But I still suffered the same discomfort about removing my trousers. Against my nature, I folded them neatly next to me, then pulled at your T-shirt, bringing it over my knees and distracting myself by eyeing your wall of CDs. No one used CDs anymore. I stood to have a proper look; then I heard you returning and dropped back onto the sofa.

‘I’ve even put them on a plate. Are you impressed?’

I smiled.

‘I’ll let you have first pick— Oh . . . sorry, Constance. I didn’t mean . . . You only needed to take off your shoe.’

I froze, apart from my eyes, which moved side to side, helping me compute the shame. Once registered, I grappled to put my trousers back on. ‘I . . . I’m sorry . . . I did ask you, and you said—’

‘It’s not a problem.’ You were laughing.

As I sucked in my stomach to zip them up, I also sucked in tears. I didn’t know where you were or what you were doing because I couldn’t bear to look at you.

‘Oh, come on – don’t get upset. I don’t care . . . I’m still a bloody doctor. It’s funny, that’s all.’

I reached for my socks, tucked inside my shoes. ‘I should go anyway, Dr Stevens. I promised my friend I’d—’

‘Samuel . . . But you can’t go . . . Constance, chill, please. You need to calm down first, after what’s happened . . . and I don’t mean you stripping for me.’ You laughed again.

I pulled my shoes nearer. ‘No, I’ve got to go—’

‘Constance . . . Constance, it was a joke. Sorry . . . I’m not funny. Please. Seriously now . . . I need to check your foot before you go anywhere.’ Your tone changed, and you placed your hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me down towards the sofa. ‘It was my fault. I thought you only asked about the chocolate. I didn’t hear you ask about the trousers. And it really doesn’t matter.’

You were already kneeling in front of me. My foot held within your soft hands. They weren’t cold like the first time. No warm heart. And I hated how your touch soothed me as you manipulated, evaluated.

‘Is that hurting?’