‘Say it,’ I ground out.

‘No.’

‘Say it!’

‘No.’

‘Say it!’

‘Jeez, Luce!’ he burst out. Finally. ‘Just because it’s natural doesn’t mean it’s right. You know I think that. We probably wouldn’t have had kids anyway, just like how I’d never cheat on you so we’re both going against nature. And, and,’ he was scrambling, arms thrown wide, imploring me, ‘and anyway, not all sex has to be reproductive: gay people enjoy sex too.’

‘Fuck! You’re unbelievable,’ I spluttered, even though it was normally one of my arguments, of sorts. ‘Are you seriously likening cancer-induced infertility to homosexuality? What would your sister say?’

‘May would agree with me! You’ve heard her judge “breeders”. She reckons, and I know you agree, that the world would be better if there were more homosexuals because the population would be smaller. They’re better for the environment! It’s Malthusian, just like cancer.’

My jaw dropped. I’d taught him that word. And for him to use it against me like that?

In case you don’t know, a Malthusian Crisis is this theory a bloke called Thomas Malthus came up with back in the day, which posits that nature provides checks against human population growth so that the population doesn’t exceed natural resources. So a Malthusian Crisis, like, say, the plague, is nature’s way of keeping us in check. Except, with developments in technology and medicine we haven’t had one since before the industrial revolution, which is one of the reasons the planet’s fucked: human population has just increased exponentially. Some people reckon global warming might be it: not just a Malthusian Crisis, but the Malthusian Crisis. Our version of the meteorite or the ice age or whatever it was that killed the dinosaurs. Not that that was a Malthusian Crisis, but still.

‘Homosexuality’s Malthusian? My cancer’s Malthusian?’

‘Well, cancer, like homosexuality, develops naturally, doesn’t it?’

And just like that it was over. The fight had gone out of me. I was ready to flee, to fly. He could see it and knew to let me go. He knew he’d overstepped the mark and he knew that I knew I made him.

He sat there in broody silence while I shimmied into my jeans and untangled his scratchy woollen jumper from the muddle of clothes on the floor.

A gesture, perhaps?

Read into it what you will.

The night outside was star-studded and still. The afternoon cloud must have ebbed on the back of the waning north-easterly. I picked my way down to the beach then followed the curve of the neck on the ocean side, ranging along the tideline, sidestepping the dark lumps that dotted the sand. As I drew closer, the soft moonlight revealed them to be tassels of kelp or dead mutton-birds half buried in the tideline. The thick sea air swelled slowly, brushing against my cheeks and filling my lungs.

My anger had faded, mostly. My grief? Not so much.