Walking alone, as I had expected, I weep a little from pain, then rise, seeking tea. My hand slides down my body, cups a breast, scratches and yawns.

Stops yawning.

I throw aside the bedclothes and leap onto the cold floor to find a mirror. Long hair veils my face. I dare not pull it back. Because the caressing hand has found, under the swell of the breast and the cup-navelled female belly, a pole swollen with morning, a proud phallus.

Gods of the Night and the Morning, Achaean and Archaic, I have been heard. He is not here; he is inside me. I have his sex and he is inside my head. I can hear his voice, wailing, questioning, and I have no answers.

One hand grabs a breast, hard enough to leave red marks; his hand. One hand strokes a phallus, bringing a spurt of delight; my hand.

We lie down again to find out what we can do.