We watch Robocop and attempt to fuck but it hurts too much and she keeps on giggling every time I wince. Falling asleep soon after, I dreamt blood was gushing out of me while taking a piss, and the sight of so much crimson splashing on the white linoleum made me jolt upright in bed with the taste of her perfume still on my lips. We ate in a curry place down the road not long after, but neither of us spoke that much. I drank to numb the pain, and she played with her food while giving me the evils. I’m not sure what for. Perhaps she’s still sore at me for kicking her out of bed the night before, or maybe it hurts knowing she doesn’t compare to my words. It’s not strictly true of course because she inspires my words in more ways than she’ll ever know, her problem is that she never takes the time to read them. She bores too easily, you see. So on the walk back to mine I try slipping my fingers through hers, but she withdraws her hand and stuffs it into her pocket. Lighting a cigarette, I ask her what her fucking problem is but walk ahead before she has the chance to reply. I’m half expecting her not to follow, but she does. Head down while wiping her eyes, she goes straight up to the bedroom and curls into a ball beneath the duvet. Sulking in the kitchen, I drink several beers while trying to figure out what to do next, but in the end, I get drunk and fall asleep on the couch. There are more dreams. More blood, and more spiders. When I go to her in the early hours, she’s lying on her belly. Nestling beside her, I stroke the side of her face and apologise. She deserves better, but what can I do?