Of course, it is possible to have sex without involving the mouth, but some humans don’t favour that option. I remember one of the men who attacked me planting wet, open-mouth kisses on every inch of me he could reach—my shoulder, my ear, my chin. I scrubbed for days to eliminate the sense-memory of his saliva on my skin.

When Eugene has finished his coffee, I take the cup out of his hand and lay it on the table. I move the vegetables and dip out of his reach.

He looks at me enquiringly. It is clear that my actions are not casual. I am initiating something, but he doesn’t know what.

“I want to have sex with you. Just once. It will be the first time since I was attacked.” My observation of Eugene has led me to conclude that this approach is the most likely to succeed. If I could have traded on his overwhelming physical attraction to me, I would have, but it is clear that the chemistry between us is tepid at best.

He can choose to believe that his magical penis has the power to fix me, if he likes, but I will know the truth—that I am taking a step towards fixing myself.

I have taken him by surprise. He looks at me with his mouth slightly open as he struggles to process my request.

“I am going to take my top off now,” I say. “If you don’t want me to do that, just put your hand on my arm and I’ll stop.”

I cross my arms over my body and take hold of my T-shirt at the hem. Then I pull it up, up, up very slowly, giving him all the time in the world to touch my arm.

He will do it now, I think as the T-shirt covers my face, blinding me and causing my breath to blow back at me. Now. He will do it now.

The T-shirt is off. The air in the cottage stirs against my skin, raising goose flesh on my arms and mottling my shoulders pink and white and purple. I expect him to avert his eyes, but he doesn’t. I allow myself to feel a man’s gaze stinging my body for the first time in two years. Panic threatens to rise, but I breathe it back down.

Eugene stands up and takes my hand, pulling me to my feet. He reaches behind my back and touches the clasp of my bra.

“May I?”

I nod.

He unfastens it and draws the straps over my shoulders and down my arms until it falls to the floor. He rubs my shoulders with his hands, trying to warm me up. It is the gesture of an adult to a child. I don’t want to be the child in this interaction.