‘Hi Amy. I hope this finds you well. I haven’t seen you in twelve years. Do you still have my underwear? Those white briefs? I think that you do. I wonder if you wear them. Can picture you next to the window, spending all your life thinking about me. Twelve years that are all about me. I’ve consulted the internet to see if this is true – if there’s some record of you in my underwear. Next to that window. Thinking about me.’
I go home, and then up. Stairs, and a door. I jingle the keys.
“You’re home!” says Amy, running at me.
I put out a hand to stop her, because I’ve a laptop to stow away, a jacket to remove, a phone to turn off. Then she runs into me, and suddenly I’m pressed against the door. I am a door, I think, as…
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