I start to open the messages, one by one. They were all sent within four days of my decision to break off contact with Gavin: four on the first day of my silence and then one on each consecutive day after that.

Hi Nicki, I’m writing to check that my last email to you didn’t go astray. Let me know. G.

It’s pathetic, isn’t it, me worrying because you haven’t emailed me for a few hours? Don’t want you to think I can’t last a day or even several without hearing from you, but you know what it’s like—once a pattern’s been established, any disruption to said pattern causes concern. And did you realize that we’ve emailed each other **at least** twenty times a day since we started? G.

PS—in case you’ve forgotten when our exchange started, it was February 24. You made a reference once to deleting all your emails from me, for security. I deliberately kept shtum (not wanting you to think I’m careless about security, which I’m not) and I don’t know if you assumed that I delete all your emails after reading too, but I don’t. I keep them. I reread them. They mean a lot to me. I hope that’s OK with you. That’s why I wasn’t upset by the idea of you deleting your side of our conversation, because I’m keeping it safe at my end. Don’t worry. I promise you no one but me will ever see it. G.

PPS—feelings, eh? They complicate things, don’t they? I hope I haven’t freaked you out by writing about what can only be described as noncarnal matters. I won’t make a habit of it, I promise. Let me know you’re OK and aren’t sick of me yet, and I’ll go back to talking mainly about your nipples, I promise. (Well, I might cover a few other parts of your body, to be fair. In my emails and, in due course, with my own body—I hope.) G.

No, no, no. This is wrong.

I feel dizzy, disorientated. I want and need words from Gavin, but not these words. This doesn’t sound like him. This sounds too much like a real person, someone I might know or be friends with. Gavin has always sounded like . . .

What?

Like something automated. Short toneless sentences, short paragraphs. Like an android giving erotic instructions. The kind of written voice that disembodied words on a screen might have if they had a voice.

And that was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? What does that say about you?

In due course with his own body? Did he really mean that? Do I want him to mean it?