I'm going to quit my job. I'm going to quit her. I wake up with a twist of nerves from my stomach to my groin. I think of her first in the shower. I'm OK for a few hours, even when I see her. After lunch it begins to build again. Will it be one of those days? I put my headphones in, listen to three or four albums - crooners, jazz - on rotation. Born to be blue. I pretend not to be looking out for her, thinking about her. I work. If it's one of those days, she'll touch me on the shoulder. I never try to initiate, I don't want to pressure her. She's the one with the family. When everyone leaves, her hand moves from my shoulder to my hair. It feels so good to have your head scratched, like on a rainy sick day as a child. She's completely focused on me; I'm focused on the sensation. Fly me to the moon. Often it only goes as far as shirts unbuttoned, touching, making out. Like teenagers behind a half-open door. When I get home I put on different music, cleanse. I put her away in a space separate to the rest of my life. Her taste, cinnamon; those specific songs I listen to only in the lead-up. Exactly like you. I want to hear them one day and feel time flatten out; I want to be able to come back here. I'll quit soon, and keep that capsule intact. December, start of summer. Before Christmas. New Year. Soon.