“Do you know what I love,” she says to him dreamily, their limbs all tangled on the back seat of the bus, “I love that feeling when you fill a whole notebook with stories or shopping lists, and then you flick through the pages over and over… you can hear the ink crackling…

“So what do you love?”

“Hmmm.” He thinks for a long while. “You know when you get a big spot on your face, right. All day you’re just busting to pop it but you know it’s not the right time. So you wait and wait and let it get to that boiling point. Then you finally squeeze and that’s what I love, that little rush you get when it just whooshes out so perfectly and neatly.”

“You fucking make me sick!” she sqwarks. She removes her leg from over his leg and his arm from under her arm. She picks up the ridiculous little handbag and scrunches over beside the window.