Standing in line waiting to pay for our stuff, she tugs on my beard and tells me to get a shave. Peering down her top, I pretend to be looking at something else, but there’s no denying what I’m drawn to. Frowning at my behaviour, she turns her back with a huff and digs out her phone while I contemplate the injury she inflicted the previous night. Riding me with both of my hands held above my head, she’d grinded so hard she almost tore the strip of flesh at the tip of my cock. We called it the bungee when we were at school, but I think the proper word is frenulum. Anyway, she almost tore it, and now I’ve spent the past half hour hobbling around Boots looking for something to ease the pain. There was blood, not much, but it was there, and as soon as I’d seen it, I almost passed out. Laughing at me as my eyes flickered, she’d carried on going until I pushed her off causing her to fall to the floor. An argument soon followed, which culminated in her threatening to stab me with a pair of scissors. I told her that if she did, I’d fuck her sister while she was serving time in prison, and so the matter was closed. I do love her, and yet it won’t last. It never does. During another heated exchange a while back, she accused me of being in love with writing more than I was with her. It’s the truth of course, and that’s what I told her. She promptly left with all her things, and we didn’t speak for the best part of a month. When we got back together, I told her it was the drink talking, but in reality, I just couldn’t bear the idea of her being sad anymore. She gets that way when she’s by herself, you see. Looking at the back of her neck, I know that in my heart I love her, and yet there’s this distance between us that won’t shift. Is it me? Is it her? Is it the writing? I dunno. Ever since we watched that film together during the summer, I keep dreaming of spiders. First, they were crawling from her pussy, and now they keep scuttling through the letterbox and windows until they go inside my mouth and into my belly. I should tell someone. Maybe see a therapist? No, I’ll just keep on writing. Her? Maybe she’ll stick around; maybe she won’t. It’s not that I don’t care- it’s just that this has happened so many times before.