I haven’t seen Ben since what happened in his studio. The next day, I had woken up with my own studio in disarray, the towel I’d used to clean Ben’s cut hanging from my mouth and draped over my chest like a bib, the puppet I’d stolen from the gallery on my hand, a little bit of blood smeared on her face. I’d had to clean her, my top, my hair, face, and arms, in the sink. There are, apparently, showers in the factory, somewhere high up, but I hadn’t wanted to risk someone seeing me, stained from the events of yesterday. I went outside to leave my top somewhere to dry in the sun, just wearing my sweatshirt with nothing underneath on my top half. On my way, I found a little package outside my front door. In it was my phone, which I’d left charging in Ben’s studio, and a note from him saying sorry for yesterday and explaining that he would be away for a few days with his fiancée. He used her name. It was Anju. It felt like a really weird and wrong way for me to see Ben’s handwriting for the first time; although, when I had thought that, I realized I wasn’t sure in what circumstance I’d hoped to see it for the first time. I touched the note with my fingertips, feeling the indentations made on the paper with the Biro Ben had used. I couldn’t tell whether I was beginning to like him and wanted to be with him, or whether I was hungry and wanted to eat him.