The rapid thoughts are thrown into disarray as she continues her onslaught.
"You are gone for days without even a phone call. Just what sort of a prick are you? I've been calling you, texting you. Do I mean that little that you can't even bother to reply? To me? Where the fuck have you been, you dumb little shit?"
My eyes lower to the spittle on her lips; her sharp incisors glisten. I watch, wide-eyed, as she opens her hand, my eyes focussing on the long, pointed nails that protrude over the tips of her fingers. I know Erica. She is preparing to scrape those fingernails down the side of my face, use them as weapons. She wants blood. I grab both her wrists and I push her away. I just need to keep those hands away from me. I feel her tension ease away, feel her strength fade. Staring into her beautiful, angry eyes for signs, I need to know that her attack is over. I release my grip from her wrists. There is a moment of silence, of inactivity, where we both look at each other, two boxers considering their opponent's next move. Erica pummels her fists into my chest. She is like a drummer. This is harmless. I let her hit me, use my chest as a punch bag. She just needs to let her anger out. She needs to wear herself out. The erection in my pants grows.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I say. "I love you so much. You know I love you so much."
Erica arches her neck to the side. I know that look: are you fucking with me? Are you really fucking with me, you little son-of-a-bitch? After days and days away, I tell her I love her? But it is how I feel. It is probably how a husband feels after hitting his wife, but that doesn't make it any better, does it?
"My brain was fucked, Erica. I needed time away. Like, really needed it. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to stop me going. I knew you'd worry. I really am sorry."
"Where did you go?"
I look away. I can't bear to look at her. Jenny knows where I went. I do love her. Erica.
"I can't say. It was nowhere. Just somewhere. I just needed to be somewhere else. Somewhere other than here."
She has a million and one angry questions to ask me. Her mouth opens and she begins to speak but I think she realises my answer is likely so pathetic that it is beyond taking it any further. Just isn't worth going there.
"Why? What is wrong with you? Are you sick?"
I think about this. I feel sick, and maybe I am sick. It feels like a disease has infected my body over the last few weeks, since the beginning of the month – this awful, decrepit month of June - has spread over every fibre of my being. But I can't use that as the reason. It isn't the reason, not really.
"My mind hasn't been in the right place, darling," I say. "My brain has been messed up. I needed to get away before it got really bad, before I got into major trouble."
A few cute lines appear on her forehead. She crinkles her nose. Erica knows I struggle. I think it was part of the appeal when she first met me, like a bird with an injured wing she wanted to heal. She knows I have a history that is always there, lurking like a monster at the bottom of the bed. I've told her I have a past, that I used to be a different person. She just doesn't realise I meant literally a different person. Does she need to?
"Why couldn't you tell me this before you went?"
"Because I didn't want you to stop me going."
"You think that little of me?"
No, no, no. That isn't it at all. "It is because I think that much of you. I know you love me, although I have no idea why you fucking do. I know you would have tried to stop me because you didn't want me to get hurt."
"Did you tell her where you were going? Was it her you went with?"
I press my forehead gently against hers, tell her that of course I didn't. She doesn't move away. I lower my hands. Erica rubs her thumb along the length of my middle finger. I kiss the tip of her nose. "You need to think enough of me to know that I wouldn't stop you from doing anything you believe you need to," she says. I pull my face back and nod my head. My lips caress her own. She tastes salty. I dread to think how I taste. Raw sewerage probably has nothing on me right now. Still, Erica allows her tongue to slip inside my mouth. I wonder whether she can feel me pressing against the smoothness of her inner thigh. Erica pulls way. Maybe she does feel it?
"Don't ever fuck off like that again," she says. "Or I swear, it'll be me who leaves you. You can go back to her, to your perfect little wife."
I make a million and one promises to her. Sensing the tension fade away, like the air has been released from the balloon, I tell her that I'm going to take a shower. Erica doesn't argue. She can smell me. I need to wash the dirt from my body. I need to
