My eyes can barely follow her motion, swooping down to pluck a stubborn shellfish from its once safe rocky perch. Only a blur, like some half-recognised shape in the darkness of our bedroom: shades drawn, no hint of starlight permitted inside. I stumble around the bed, trying not to wake you, trying not to let that waiting wooden bedpost leap longingly for my littlest toe, to conjure cunts and fucks and oh my Gods, and wake you, after all.

Yet still she falls, my imagination filling in the frames, a frazzled inbetweener – not even making minimum wage – so I can pretend to watch, and marvel at this graceful being, that I can’t even really see.