It was interesting, all of it, but deep within myself I turned away. In the sixth year I began to repeat ‘Our connection is erotic’ with monotonous regularity, and always now with a kind of dull anger in my voice. I meant, of course, I wasn’t making erotic connection. Our disputes had begun to weary me. Confrontation failed to arouse. I no longer flared with predictable speed or heat. Suddenly we’d have a bad week, wouldn’t sleep together. We’d meet then and I’d be sluggish, disoriented. Joe’s attention would wander openly. We were trudging uphill, making conversation for an hour and a half.

‘We’re out of phase just now,’ one of us said.

‘In a dull period,’ the other confirmed.

‘Next week we’ll be as we’ve always been.’

And next week we would be as we’d always been: for a day or two.

Bit by bit we were coming unstuck, and we each knew it. The atmosphere was poisoned with confusion and regret. I turned coy: ‘We can’t go on like this forever, you know.’ Joe turned tough: ‘Let’s quit right now.’ But on we went.