Scott

I’m dry and warm and lying in bed where Alan Sebastian has tucked me in.

He lies down beside me and asks me if I want him to stay, or if it would be okay if he goes for a run.

“I can stay if you need me. If you want me to,” he says.

I want him to stay. But I want him to be okay, and if he doesn’t follow his routine he won’t be okay. He’s already not okay. Is it more selfish of me to ask him to break his routine, or to expect him to force himself to be okay so he can look after me?

I shake my head, but I don’t know whether I mean no to him staying or going.

I decide I’ll feel guiltier asking him to stay, so I say “go.” It’s about all I can manage. It’s hard to synchronise the breath and voice and tongue involved in making words come out of my mouth.

He kisses my cheek and I tilt my head up so he can kiss me on the mouth and I wonder how long it’s been since he’s done that.

I close my eyes and Mani is there and he asks me if I want him to sit with me and I shake my head and he tells me he’ll just be in his room next door and to call out for him if I need him.

My son is old enough to look after me, now.

I close my eyes for what feels like a moment, and then Alan Sebastian is back on the bed beside me.

I put my arm around him and he feels so warm and solid and he puts his head next to mine and puts his nose in my ear, and when I slip my hand under the hem of his shirt he breathes in sharply and I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve done that.

I want to be close to him but I don’t want to be touched, and I realise I can tell him that. I can tell him what I want and what I’m thinking and what I need and I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve done that.

“It is fine,” he says. “I am fine.”

But I take off his shirt.

And he doesn’t touch me but I think I’ll be okay with that some time, if not now.

And he doesn’t touch me but I know I’ll be okay with that at some point. But not now.

And he groans and his hands are in my hair and

The door opens and then slams shut again.

“Don’t stop!” says Mani from outside the door. “I heard a noise, I didn’t know that Dad was back. I’m going to walk into the sea now… very safely and without any need for supervision,” he’s down the hall and we’re looking at each other, laughing silently, tears in our eyes and I wonder how long it’s been since we’ve done that.

“He’s gone. Keep going,” says Alan Sebastian. Gillian walked in on us once, about 10 years ago. It put Alan Sebastian off for almost two days.

“Has it been a really long time?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says. “It has.”