Dave notices that she has put the teacup on the counter. He wonders if now is a good time to tell her. He imagines her throwing the teacup at him, her face red with anger. She’d throw it at him, and he’d duck, and it would smash against the wall. Standing among the little shards, she’d fire questions, Why, When, How? Or she wouldn’t throw the teacup at him; she’d put it down on the counter and look for something unbreakable to lob at him to minimize damage and mess—the plastic orange salad bowl, for example, the one he bought from IKEA that she was embarrassed to use when they had his parents over for dinner. The salad bowl would bop him on the head and land on the floor, spinning; she’d pick it up and continue hitting him on the head with it while firing questions, Why, When, How? The thought makes him smile a little. Or perhaps she’d surprise him and not throw anything or ask questions. Perhaps she’d just stand there blankly, holding her teacup. Maybe she’d get very quiet, very calm, and after a moment announce that she has to leave. Or she’d ask him, quietly and calmly, to leave. Which he would. He’d pack a bag, call Nathan. This third scenario feels like the worst one, the saddest. It occurs to Dave then, as Mayling holds up a sachet of peppermint tea and he nods and she drops it into the teacup and fills it with hot water, that it doesn’t take much to change everything: get up, go to her, speak. It doesn’t take much to cause deep, irreversible pain. The prospect is terrifying and thrilling.

“Let it steep for a couple of minutes,” says Mayling, handing him the teacup.

He tells her to leave it on the counter.

“I’ll come back out for it. I’ve just got to finish this email.”

Dave returns to the study, closes the door behind him and sits down. He continues:

I have a ticket, and I can come to you. But I need to sort things out here. I have to explain to Mayling

He stops. There are two new messages in his inbox:

10-14-02

4:16 am (GMT +7)

Let me tell you this: I am sick. I am disgusting and wrong. I am sick of sadness, anger, guilt. It’s become such a part of me that I can’t remember how my body feels without it. A badge, a license. No, no. That’s tragic. I won’t be one of those. I am one of those.