At the door to the house, I think again about how I could just say, ‘I’m not feeling this, sorry,’ but the more I rehearse the phrase the harder it becomes to squeeze it out. It’s like I have hot mashed potato in my mouth. In bed, he swipes past my clit like he’s scanning items on the Sainsbury’s self-checkout machine. Then, almost without warning, he’s inside me, moving in me with this aggressive circle motion. My brain rehearses the words I might use to correct him, how his face might break apart like a smashed plate if I did, how he might leave my room walking smaller. So I swallow those words back down, try to find other ways, moaning when he moves more in the way of something I would like, shuffling to different angles. But every time I just end up on my back again counting all the cracks in the ceiling as he draws those same circles into my cervix. It feels like someone’s rooting around in me for something they need to remove. After a while I give up and lie there, thinking of England.