The girl on a train

After the latest tawdry episode between Trina and I, I suggested we clarify matters by not having sex any more. I said that we should rescue the good bits, like going out dancing. But no more sex.

"Well, we'll see," she replied. Dancing is easy. Rescuing it means a bit more. Starting with [dance music event later this month] x". Hang on, hang on, I don't want to "rescue" it. However, the new regime seems to be working fine. I am glad for her, pleased that she is starting to accept what I can offer, three-a-half years into trying to bend it into something more, during which I have not helped matters by having sex with her. It's a relief not to have her presence in the bed. Overnight, the desire has entirely disappeared.

Met Wendy for a couple of bottles of Prosecco today. Multicoloured top in that maddeningly apparently transparent fabric. Wendy, take your bra off. Your tits would look lovely under that top if you weren't wearing a bra.

We talked about lying and its role in the presentation of various versions of oneself. She said that she was a bit of a delinquent at school (the same school in Morecambe at which I finished off my patchwork quilt of a secondary education), never doing a single piece of homework and refusing to sit any exams. We both got into University by dint of Adult Education evening classes.

I watched her go upstairs, raking my eyes down her lovely figure, wishing I had permission to do it overtly and often. "Erm... you know that packet of sparklydust we've been using? Can I have it?" I laughed out loud at her nerve and slid it under her purse. We kissed goodbye on the street, a moment's competition for her lips.

She texted. "Lovely afternoon looby! See you soon xx." "It was indeed. And in the interests of never denying anyone a sincerely meant compliment, you just get more and more gorgeous." Got in, took some more sparklydust, and spent a couple of hours wanking thinking about her, via a long and detailed fantasy involving sitting next to her on a train and making her shift her dress up high across her bare thighs and running my fingers along its hem.

I wonder when all this of this will collapse. My life feels like an experiment. Just one card at the bottom to fall over, and down it'll all come crashing. Such are my rug-addled thoughts at half past four in the morning with techno and a Huddersfield Contemporary Music Festival sweatshirt on. I'm never sure whether they're representative of lucidity, or just tripe.