34. Bees drone around the lavender bush

Sally carefully pours me another glass of wine.

"But you say he hasn't done anything," she says.

We are sitting on her balcony in the evening sun. She has planted flowers and herbs in cobalt-blue pots. Bees drone around the lavender bush next to me.

My shoulders ache from my session with my punch bag last night. I never bothered getting past the basic moves. Never saw the point. I learned the basics, and then concentrated on getting them perfect. If you're not facing a martial artist, they're enough. If they're perfect.

Jab, cross, uppercut. Front kick, roundhouse, side kick, back kick. Elbow smash. Inside block, outside block. Upper block, lower block.

I made up my mind when I was old enough that I would never be defenceless again. What's the point? Someone attacks you, why make it easy? Sometimes I'm afraid, sometimes I'm angry. Anger is easier to use as a driving force.

Here's how to break someone's grip on your wrist. The weak point is the gap between thumb and finger. Twist your arm so your wrist is sideways on to this gap, and then pull it sharply towards the weak point so your wrist hits it hard.

I look at Sally. I see worry in her eyes...but no belief. I'm listening to myself telling this story about Derek and it even sounds mad to me. Like the fault lines in my personality have finally cracked, and I'm having a full-on breakdown.

"The thing is," Sally says "there's no reason he shouldn't have been there. Maybe it was just a coincidence, Alice."

I turn the heavy crystal goblet in my hands, watching the sun shine through it. The wine swirls slowly. It is the colour of venous blood. Outside, on the lawn, a single small child - maybe five or six - is under the tree doing not much, and for a second I want to go down and ask where its parents are and why it is alone. To warn it not to listen to charming strangers who say I know where your mother is and she's worried, or come with me and I'll show you something amazing, or aren't you pretty?

I’m 35, so sometimes – inevitably - I think about having children. Of course I do. Like all women my age I know I only have approximately five years in which to have them. 

Fewer women would be so desperate to have children if there wasn’t a time limit. Knowing your reproductive ability must eventually fail - may already have quietly failed - induces blind panic of the SALE ENDING TODAY EVERYTHING MUST GO type. I think some women maybe have children even when they aren't really sure, just in case they regret not having them later.

And considering that popular culture tells us that women who don't or can't have children are weird and will probably go mad when they are 50 and start stealing babies out of prams, I can understand this.

I've never come to a conclusion about whether I want children. I'm not really comfortable around them till they are about 12. I tell myself this is because they are boring and they have germs, which is partly true. The rest of the truth is more complicated.

"I know you've - I know you've been through a lot in your life. Enough to make anyone scared. But to be honest I think you're overreacting."

How can you protect your child from Matthew? This is an unpleasant fact, but it is a true one: people who want to abuse children badly enough will find a way to do it. There will always be a way. The simplest being, obviously, to make sure you have no criminal record and then patiently work your way into a position of trust until you are – eventually – allowed to work with children one to one.

And the media can yell for crackdowns and hangings and heads to roll as much as it likes, but unless every child is taken away from its parents at birth and locked in a sterile single room until it is 18 with no contact with other people, it is in danger. We just have to live with that.

"Alice, are you listening?"

There is also the other fear.

There is a common myth that children who are sexually abused grow up to be sex abusers. When you actually look into it, there is no evidence for this. In fact many organisations working with rape survivors and rapists are actively trying to discourage it because it is unhelpful to everyone. Especially survivors.

But the myth is there, part of society, and you hear it, growing up. And other people hear it too. Everyone hears it. It's one of the reasons it's very hard to tell people you were sexually abused. One worries - I worry - they will make assumptions.

But not as much as I worry that one day I will wake up and find that, despite my best attempts to be a good person, I've turned into a monster without realising.

This fear is very common among people like me, so common as to be nearly universal. The only way I have ever found to deal with it is to be absolutely rational. My orientation is quite clearly towards adult men. My sexual fantasies and my sexual arousal focus around completely consensual heterosexual sex. My terror is utterly groundless.

Here, in the sunshine on Sally's balcony, my worries about Derek also seem lunatic. I'm paranoid. Anyone would be paranoid, given my background, but I have to keep a check on myself. I have to accept that some of my perceptions are skewed, my perceptions of myself and of other people. Werewolves are rare. He's probably a perfectly normal man. I'm assuming a lot. Just a - coincidence. A coincidence.

I suddenly feel bad about being rude to him.

"You're right," I say. "I just - I'm down to my last nerve."

33. She usually gets quite a lot of applause

There is a pub on the outskirts of the city called The Man in Black. The landlord, in case you hadn't guessed, is obsessed with Johnny Cash. Normally he keeps this under control quite well and it is just an ordinary - in fact, a rather good - local pub with a lot of pictures of Johnny Cash on the walls.

But once every three months he holds a karaoke night where you can sing anything you want as long as it is by Johnny Cash. He gets stupendously drunk and sings I Got Stripes. This is invariably one of the highlights of the evening.

The Cashtacular, as it is known to those of us who attend regularly, is surprisingly popular. One would have thought it would only appeal to a niche audience, but in fact the pub is usually rammed.

Amanda always sings 25 Minutes To Go, wearing a man's baggy black suit, with a tight black shirt she unbuttons to show three inches of cleavage. She usually gets quite a lot of applause.

"Well, they're building a gallows outside my cell...and I've got 25 minutes to go," she growls into the microphone. She has informed me she always wears a black bra and knickers as well to "really get into the spirit of it". This is more than I wanted to know.

Midway through the song, my skin prickles. Something's wrong. I don't know what it is, but something has gone badly wrong, right now.

I turn and look around the room and see Derek, sitting at the table behind and to the left of me. He is wearing a black shirt and a black suit, like pretty much everyone else in the room. He has a heavy gold watch on his right wrist. Looks expensive.

He is watching me. When he sees me turn, he smiles and raises his glass.

On the stage, Amanda sings.

"Well I'm waiting for the pardon that'll set me free, with nine more minutes to go. But this ain't the movies so forget about me - eight more minutes to go...."

Derek ambles over to my table. He chooses the chair closest to mine. He rests his knee against my thigh. I move my thigh. He moves his knee so he's touching me again.

"Hello Alice," he says. He smiles again, and then he licks his lips. He has a large, wet tongue. "What a coincidence." There is no surprise in his voice.

"Hello," I say. It's funny how, when you are faced with someone who is behaving in a disturbing way, you try as hard as you can to act like everything's normal. Like the person you're talking to is normal. Until you can't pretend any more.

"It's good to see you. I could give you a lift home after the show if you like," he says. His voice is thoughtful, musing. "It's on my way. You live in that block of flats just off Jefferson Street."

It's a statement, not a question.

"No, thank you," I say. "I've got plans tonight."

"With your pretty blonde friend?" He nods towards the stage. "What are you doing?"

I'm not sure how to answer, so I take a sip of my drink and smile.

"Perhaps I could buy you a drink," he says.

"We'll be leaving very shortly."

"That's a shame. Are you sure I can't tempt you?"

Derek's eyes are full of shining amusement. They are focused on me, all his interest is on me, he's like a man watching a wasp drown in a glass of beer. He has scared the crap out of me. And he knows it. And he knows I know who and what he is. And he loves that I'm scared.

Amanda finishes singing and Derek leaves my table without waiting for an answer. He doesn't want to be here when Amanda gets back. Of course not. She could corroborate.

I run back through everything that's happened. I could perhaps say that it was inappropriate for him to take me out to lunch and buy me wine, but the truth is I drank the wine and I didn't say anything at the time - not to him, not to anyone else - so nothing would happen. HR might have a quiet word with him, but nothing would happen.

Apart from that, there's nothing. A handful of looks. Some emails which, even to me, look completely professional. He's never touched me. He's never even made any off-key comments. I have nothing except the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice to back up my dreadful sense of fear.

And now here he is; and why shouldn't he be here? It's a bar full of Johnny Cash fans and I'm sure he will turn out to have a copy of Live from Folsom Prison or American IV at home because he is a tidy man who doesn't like loose ends.

I had hoped that he was smart enough to leave me alone. Smart werewolves don't target people they know, because connections can be traced back. But it turns out he's only half-smart and he's coming after me anyway.

I am now at war. I didn't want it and I didn't ask for it, but it's been brought to me anyway and I will have to defend myself or go under.

The bit of my brain which has been sticking its fingers in its ears and singing while frantically trying to pretend that I'm imagining it, that I'm crazy, that Derek isn't what I think he is, suddenly comes to life and I coldly wake up all the way.

I know what I'm meant to do - what he means for me. What he wants from me. I'm meant to be scared. I'm meant to be as paralysed with fear as a mouse hiding from a cat. He thinks that I'm like every stupid bitch in every Hollywood thriller who curls up in a ball and starts crying instead of figuring out how to take the psychopaths down. I'm meant to be making him feel powerful because, for him, that's the good shit. That's what gets him off. And the reason he's picked me is because he thinks he can do that to me.

He's wrong. I'm not that woman. I just look like her.

I plan. I need to go home and drag out my punch bag from the cupboard. I need to revise my self-defence techniques, my escape routes, and my protection routines. Then I need to sit down and figure out how the fuck I'm going to take the fight to him.

32. Objects are a nuisance

It is my birthday. This is always an uncomfortable occasion.

I don't really like birthdays. Firstly, the people I know expect something special to happen and I am required to come up with a fun event that everyone will enjoy. Secondly, it involves gifts.

Presents are a source of immense anxiety for me. People give you something they have bought you, and they expect you to open it in front of them, and they watch your face. If you don't like it, they know. When someone likes me enough to take the time and trouble to buy me a present it feels like I'm rejecting them and their friendship when I don't like their gift. This is made even more problematic by the fact I dislike owning objects unless they are a) beautiful (which is a subjective perception and difficult for others to get right) or b) useful (which is also subjective). Ideally I like them to be both.

Objects are a nuisance. They need to be displayed and taken care of and packed up when you move house. Too many objects in a room, crowding each other on all the surfaces, clamouring for attention and cleaning, make me feel closed in and - in certain particularly cluttered places - even induce something close to a panic attack.

Sometimes I dream of being the kind of person who can own four outfits, a mattress, a box with the minimum kitchen equipment and a bag with soap and a sponge.

Of course I own a lot more than that, because this is a first world country in the 21st century and we all have too many objects. Piles of objects. Mountains, rivers, deluges of them. Some objects that we don't even look at, touch, or use from the beginning of one year to the end of the next. Objects which have no function and are not aesthetically pleasing or well made. Pointless objects like pizza wheels and garlic presses. Clothes we have bought and never worn. Ornaments we were given. Jewellery that doesn't suit us. Nests of inexplicable cables. Old things. Broken things. Half-used hair products and moisturiser and medication. Bags of weird ingredients, bought for one recipe we tried once which didn't work, which quietly go off in the kitchen cupboards. Hair slides belonging to people we don't know any more which make us sad whenever we find them behind the sofa.

Over the years, I've shed a lot of stuff. I don't have so much now, and the things I do have tend to be possessions I've consciously chosen or chosen to keep. I can pack up the flat in two days if I need to.

In previous years, I've had a big party at the flat. This year, I didn't really feel like it. It upsets Rammstein and involves a lot of cleaning up and there are always people there who I don't really know and I get stressed for days beforehand.

This year, I've decided to go to a restaurant. It's rather an elderly middle of the road crowd here, and Amanda's short purple latex dress has been much stared at, as has Sally's black veiled hat and plunging cleavage. Amanda and Sally are sitting next to each other, which surprises me; they tend to treat each other with the elaborate courtesy of two cats who have had to call a truce due to proximity and I strongly suspect they don't really like each other. Gin is eating asparagus, dipping it in hollandaise, and talking to Jena about her break-up with Jason.

I look at the pile of neat packages in front of me. A square box from Sally, wrapped in a length of grey lace and tied with a perfect bow of silver ribbon. A book-shaped package from Amanda, wrapped in untidily sellotaped pages from an old issue of X-Men. Gin has got me something large and round in pink paper printed with Hello Kitty. Jena has contributed a small blue package.

These turn out to be (in order): a set of vintage 60s shot glasses in their original box. A copy of Lesy's Wisconsin Death Trip. A 20-inch plush replica of an Ebola virus. A diamante choker.

I like all these presents. I'm touched by the thought that has gone into them.

We eat. We move on to a bar. Everyone gets drunk. Gin and Jena decide to go shopping together and swap mobile numbers. Amanda tries on Sally's hat and Sally tries on Amanda's green high heels. Sally tells us all the story about the time she fell over in front of Marilyn Manson. Everyone puts on Gin's bright pink lipstick. Amanda has a long rant about a man who asked her for a mobile number and then contacted her by texting her a picture of his erect cock ("I was eating breakfast!") and we agree that we have all had similar experiences and there is an epidemic of cock-texting which needs to be firmly discouraged. Amanda and Jena then join drunken forces to interrogate some of the better-looking men in the room about whether they would text a picture of their cock to a woman. Personally I feel this question is open to misinterpretation and will probably result in exactly the situation they are trying to avoid.

Gin is lying on the sofa with her head in my lap. "Happy birthday, Alice!" she says, and smiles up at me.

31. Clutching a champagne flute

Gin opens the door to me, wearing an orange Kiss t-shirt and tweed shorts. Her feet are bare and her toenails are painted blue. She is clutching a champagne flute in one hand.

"I'm making cocktails," she announces.

I follow her into the house. Her room is on the ground floor, to the left, and she leads me in. Her room looks like someone took the possessions of a kawaii-obsessed Japanese teenage girl, combined them with the possessions of a middle-aged Metallica-obsessed English drummer, and then blew up the result.

I sit on the Pokemon bedspread and look at the Lars Ulrich poster. I notice that Gin appears to have been playing her drum kit again; the last time I came round, it was shoved in a corner with clothes piled on it, and now it has been pulled out and dusted off. I'm pleased about this. Jason didn't like her playing the drums; he thought it was weird and unfeminine. It's a good sign that she's started again. Perhaps she is finally starting to get over him.

When Jason met Gin, she was playing with Freddy's band Appleseed. He pursued her for months. Wherever we went, there he would be. It got to the point where we would be out and Amanda would say: "Look, Gin, it's your stalker."

Once she said this to Jason, which was inadvisable. Their friendship never really took off after that.

Gin was never particularly interested in Jason and Amanda and I were surprised when she started seeing him. It might have had something to do with the fact that she had fallen in love with Freddy and they had a tempestuous affair, with a lot of ups and downs, ins and outs, and screaming rows in the street. This left Gin unhappy, vulnerable and shaken up and, as Amanda observed later, it was then that Jason saw his chance.

Jason and Gin were together for a little over two years. For the first nine months it was great. Then, slowly, things changed.

I've noticed this before. Sometimes people fall in love with someone and when they get in a relationship with them they then proceed to work as hard as they can to change the person they fell in love with into a different person. When this inevitably works, they blame their partner for not being as exciting or interesting as they were at the beginning of the relationship. I find this kind of hamster-wheel logic both very common and completely pointless.

In Jason's world women aren't drummers. Black people should be slightly ashamed of themselves. Women don't really ever enjoy casual sex, they just do it for attention. There are strippers and there are wives.

It interests me that he was so attracted to Gin. I think perhaps it was that he could take this woman, this bright, vital, experimental, sexually free person, and control her. Teach her that he was right. That she had to be someone else to be loved, that what she was, who she was, would never do.

I remember Gin telling me, very seriously, that Jason had saved her from herself. The memory still makes me shake with anger. There was nothing she needed saving from.

Gin makes me a cocktail. Prosecco, jasmine tea, sugar. It's very nice.

There's a knock on the door. Amanda comes in, all six feet of her, filling up the room with blonde hair and silver high heels. She flings herself down next to me on the bed, squashing a plush Totoro in the process. She picks it up, looks at it, puts it down next to the bed.

30. The same one you get standing on the edge of a cliff

It is 11.31am precisely and Chris is looking at me.

I know he is looking at me because every time I look at him he drops his eyes. If someone is just staring into space and you happen to be in their line of vision they don't react for a moment or two when you catch their eye. If someone is looking at you with intentions to speak to you or say hello, they'll smile when they see you've noticed them.

But if they are looking at you for some other reason, and they don't want you to know this is what they are doing, then they will flick their eyes away as soon as you look over. This is what Chris is doing. He is sitting three seats down from me.

I look down, shuffle the papers in front of me. I look around again. This time he holds my eye, and he smiles, and I know he wants to sleep with me.

Damn.

You see, the thing is that he has an enormous amount of power over me. This is the moment of clarity when I realize precisely how much danger I’m in, the same one you get standing on the edge of a cliff. I cannot be falling in love. It is a hazard to my already fragile mental health, and I’m not ready for it, and it’s not convenient, and I’m terrified of his rejection, of his reciprocation, of his beauty and his ambiguous smile. Also I know what this means. I’ve been here before.

Fuck that. I don’t need anyone. I don’t want to need anyone. I want to be left the hell alone, to hide in my flat with Rammstein, with the occasional visit from Amanda and Gin. I don’t understand why the real world keeps intruding, why it keeps flinging curveballs like Derek and Chris at me, why I can’t just be left alone to live the best way I know how. Just me, happy in my shell, “happy as a clam” people say sometimes, happy as a clam shut tight and closed and blissfully alone, unnoticed in the silt at the bottom of the sea.

Except that's not the only thing I want and a lot of the other things I want directly oppose it, and it's going to be impossible to reconcile my life so I have everything. Which means I need to find another option.

I want I want I want. The eternal whine of my inner toddler. I want love. I want sex. I want to be left alone. I want to be rich. I want to be adored, but only on my own terms. I want space. I want the jacket made of creamy-soft wine-red leather with the bronze zips. I want an icecream. I want a Barbie. I want THAT ONE. Shut the hell up, stupid kid.

The decision is no decision. There is only one choice in the end. I have to step up. If I don’t – if I back down from something like this, even just once – I’m jeopardising everything I’ve achieved, all the self-esteem I've worked so hard to create.

All my instincts are to run away, to blank him every time I see him until the problem goes away and I can go back to my solitary life and dream of men I'll never have. That's a kind of unhappiness I can feel comfortable with.

But this has to be done, because I don't fucking back down. I step up. I always step up.

Backing down is when you repeat, right along with Matthew, “I will take what I’m given because I am not allowed to ask for what I want.”

So, what now? I continue to cultivate a friendship. I wait. Sooner or later the time will be right, at a drink after work one night or at another thing like Jena's barbecue, and I know now, I read in his eyes, that (barring unforeseen events) it'll happen.

Is he what I think he is? What do I think he is? Who is he? Is he safe?

I don't know. I can't tell.

The meeting finishes and we walk out. As I leave, Chris falls into step beside me. He smells great again. He smiles. His teeth are very white.

"Hello! How was your weekend?" he says. 

29. Ross and D-Train wanted to be rappers so badly it hurt

Matthew told me a lot of things. I don't remember the words, but I absorbed the gist. All of them were lies.

ALL MEN ARE LIKE ME. ALL MEN DO THIS. SOME OF US PRETEND WE DON'T BUT WE ALL DO. YOU WILL TAKE ANY MAN WHO WANTS YOU BECAUSE MEN WHO WANT YOU ARE RARE AND NONE OF THEM REALLY LIKE YOU ANYWAY, THEY JUST WANT TO GET OFF. THERE IS NO LOVE. YOU ARE FIT ONLY TO BE PREYED UPON. YOU WILL BE USED AND DISCARDED AND THIS IS YOUR PURPOSE. YOU WILL TAKE IT.

I remember.

When I was 19 or 20, I was very into the whole dance music/Ecstasy/free party thing. This was back in the mid-90s, when everyone was covered in fluorescent paint and tribal tattoos and we all used to say "Mental!" a lot.

One summer night, I went to a free party in a wood. All the trees had been wrapped in glowing streamers. I was with, who was I with? Frankie. Frankie, with her long dark hair. Frankie was going out with a guy called Ross. There were four of us; me, Frankie, Ross, and Ross's friend Kev, who everyone called D-Train for some reason I still haven't worked out (although it may just be that Ross and D-Train wanted to be rappers so badly it hurt). D-Train fancied me but at that time I wasn't interested in sex. Or rather I was - I still am - but I have many conflicting feelings about it. I loved the trippy, happy, hippy hedonism vibe when it came to taking drugs, drinking, hugging people and dancing till I fell over, but the sex? Not so much. Easier just to avoid the whole thing.

I remember D-Train and I were drinking vodka out of the bottle in the back of the car. Voodoo People was playing at top volume as country lanes blurred past.

The two of them were low to medium level drug dealers. They always had pills and they always had coke, and the pills and coke were always free for Frankie and me. That night Frankie and I drank an entire bottle of Malibu between us. We then proceeded to take two pills and a line of coke each.

Unsurprisingly, this excess resulted in me lying on a mattress in the back room of a small house nearby which was part of the party. I have no idea whose house, room or indeed mattress this was. I was enjoying myself, as far as one can when one's brain has crashed.

D-Train came into the room. He was in an equally bad way and collapsed on the floor beside the mattress. I was not able to have much in the way of thoughts but one which kept recurring was that D-Train was probably uncomfortable on the hard floor and would be much better off on the mattress instead. I managed somehow to inform him of this fact and he got on the bed with me.

He then began kissing my neck and putting his hand up my skirt. This had not been my intention in any way whatsoever (although, with hindsight, I can see how he could have misinterpreted my invitation to get in bed with me). I was too drugged to move, which meant I couldn't move away. But I managed to mutter "don't want to."

And D-Train immediately took his hands off me, said: "You're a bit mashed up right? Why don't you have a sleep?" kissed me on the forehead, and got up and left the room.

D-Train fancied me. We were both extremely high. If I had got unlucky and been with another Matthew that night, another werewolf - 

It would have been rape. But can you imagine trying to explain the scenario in court? Trying to tell it to the police? Let's be honest here. The defence would have crucified me.

But this drug-dealing unemployed Daily Mail readers' nightmare, with his white trainers and his tracksuit bottoms, understood more about sex, women and respect even when he was horny and off his face on vodka and Class As than many well-educated, middle-class, clean-cut men I have met ever will when sober. Which tells me not just a lot about men, but also a lot about prejudice, because the assumption of society in general is that a guy like D-Train wouldn't think twice.

This memory cheers me up whenever Matthew tries to convince me that he is completely normal and all men are just rapists waiting for an opportunity. D-Train saved me from that particular lie. I hope he's good, wherever he is; here's to him, and may all his coke deals go well.

The world turns, things balance. For every lesson we are taught by the Matthews there is a lesson we are taught by the D-Trains. We choose which we want to apply to ourselves.

28. On this occasion, our milk had run out

It is ten past four on Friday afternoon and I am in a little-used meeting room on the fifth floor with Martin from the Boring Department. We have put papers on the table and if anyone walks in we will be having a meeting, but in fact both of us are hiding from everyone until it's a reasonable time to go home.

Martin works in the office next to mine. He does something admin-y, something that involves shuffling paper. He doesn't meet customers, so he doesn't wear a suit and tie. Instead he wears worn-in denim and leather and cotton in blues and browns and blacks, T-shirts he’s had for years washed till they are as soft as felt. He has shaggy black hair. No-one cares what he looks like.

He doesn't say much until you know him well. If you talk to him, he mumbles and looks at the ground. A lot of people interpret this as stupidity or inarticulateness but it is, in fact, deep shyness. 

He has brought in his copy of Pan's Labyrinth to lend me because I've never seen it. He thinks I'll like it.

We've been friends - work friends, I have no idea what he does in his free time or who with - for nearly nine months. We have bonded over a shared desire for everyone to leave us alone, in particular Martin's boss Patty.

Patty micromanages everything Martin does and makes it clear she believes him to be incompetent. She hates me.

She does have a reason to hate me, and it goes like this. On each floor of the building there is one kitchen with one fridge. Each fridge contains various items belonging to people working in each office on the floor, in particular milk. On this occasion, our milk had run out and I was making a cup of tea.

Patty came in just in time to see me stealing some milk from the bottle which she had (naturally) clearly marked with her name and the name of her department (I have since found out from Martin that milk is only bought by Patty, and is rationed).

However, Patty prefers manipulation to directness. Instead of saying "I would like you to stop using our milk, please," she gave a special not-at-all-amused laugh and said: "If you need some more milk, I'm sure I can pick some up for you next time I go."

I'm not sure why I did what I did next. I think it was partly because I respond badly to people who try and manipulate me emotionally, and partly because I did not want to admit I was in the wrong. But instead of apologising - as she clearly expected - I found myself saying: "Thank you, that would be helpful. I'll let you know when we need more," replacing her bottle in the fridge and walking out with my tea.

I'm ashamed of this incident. I should not have been drinking her milk, the correct thing to do would have been to apologise, and the truth is I behaved badly. However, it is all very well feeling like that but it is far too late to mend my relationship with Patty.

These days she likes to take every opportunity she can to contradict, obstruct or otherwise undermine me; since she has little power and is not generally liked or listened to, this doesn't bother me in the slightest. But it does bother me sometimes that I deliberately baited her. It conflicts with my hope that, at heart, I'm basically a good person. If I have a right to live my life in my own preferred way unbothered by other people, then Patty has a right to live hers. The fact that I don't understand or like her does not mean I can treat her with disrespect.

Martin slides a hip flask out of his bag and offers me a sip. It's whisky.

"Happy Friday," he says, and I laugh.

I stand on a chair and lean my forehead against the window. Outside it is sunny. There is a view across the park and I can see people sitting on the grass. A group of them have beer cans and dogs and a man with red dreadlocks is playing the guitar. I wonder what it's like to live like that. It probably has its downsides, but from a distance it sometimes looks like it might be fun.