I go 'I'm starting to feel really paranoid about this whole thing'. Chris says 'what thing?', but I just look at the sky and close my eyes. There's a Belle & Sebastian tape playing in the background, it's playing 'Tigermilk', and the trees lining the canal bank are shimmering in the sun. 'oh the Jo thing of course' I say eventually, to which Chris just goes 'ah'.

Another pregnant pause. I just want to talk about Jo all the time but know that I can't. I sometimes don't even mention her when it would just be a part of the everyday story, just the things that happen in the day. Still, I edit her out, or generalise about her so that she just becomes another one of the people I see everyday, and this hurts because she quite clearly isn't. But it would be crazy to be so openly obsessional. Everyone would point and laugh. More so than they do already that is.

Chris is used to me and my silences though. He knows about the pains. He knows who I really am, how I carry age around under my skin. He was my best friend many years ago, from before the accidents that left us severed from our existences. As a result, he is the only other person I see everyday who listens incessantly to 'the State I Am In' rather than 'Wonderwall'. He is the only other person I see everyday who knows that Allen Ginsberg just died. Chris holds my hand and smiles, his eyes dark green like the sycamore leaves above.

'Spill' he says, simply.