J was evidently sincere, and seemed hurt more than anything else. The young man bowed to him, giving only a cursory glance over in her direction, then walked briskly to the door.

—

“I’m sorry,” he said as J’s car roared out of the front yard. She didn’t reply, just put on her sweater and stepped into her jeans. But then, instead of zipping them up, she just giggled into the air.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because I’m all wet…”

He looked over at her, feeling as dazed as though he’d just received a blow to the head. She had her hand on the half-up zipper and was hesitating, looking as though she couldn’t bring herself to pull it either up or down. Only then did he realize that he was still holding the camcorder. He set it down, strode over to the door, which J had left open, and locked it. Just in case, he put the upper security chain on too. Walking over almost at a run, he clutched her to him and the two of them tumbled down onto the sheet. When he tugged her jeans down to her knees she said, “No.”

It wasn’t just verbally that she rejected him—she shoved him away roughly, stood up and pulled her jeans back up. He watched as she did up the zipper and fastened the button. He stood up, stepped close to her and pushed her still-fevered body up against the wall. But when he pressed his lips firmly against hers, probing with his tongue, she shoved him away again.

“Why shouldn’t we? Because I’m your brother-in-law?”

“No, it’s nothing to do with that.”

“Then why not? Come on, you said you were all wet!” She was silent. “Did you fancy that kid?”

“It wasn’t him, it was the flowers…”

“The flowers?”

Her face instantly blanched, as if in fear. Her lower lip, red and swollen from worrying it with her teeth, trembled imperceptibly.

“I really wanted to do it,” she said carefully. “I’ve never wanted it so much before. It was the flowers on his body…I couldn’t help myself. That’s all.”

He watched as she turned her back on him and walked decisively over to the door. As she scrunched her feet into her trainers he shouted over to her: “If…” He couldn’t keep a shrill note from his voice. “If I painted flowers on myself, would you do it then?”

She turned around and stared back at him, and he understood her gaze to be one of complicity.

“And…I could film it?”

She laughed. Faintly, as if there were nothing she wouldn’t do, as if limits and boundaries no longer held any meaning for her. Or else, as if in quiet mockery.

—

I wish I were dead.

I wish I were dead.

So die.