"Tell me what you're thinking. Whatever it is."

I try to catch her eye in the mirror, but she looks away, perhaps deliberately. I start to say something, then think better of it. I run my fingers through my hair, a rather futile exercise for calm, but somewhat comforting nonetheless.
I tell her I'm thinking about Nick Cave and PJ Harvey. How a relationship of some four months has the ability to span an eternity when pictured through a musical lens. How Cave's minimalistic masterpiece 'The Boatman's Call' has immortalised his relationship with Polly Harvey as something intense and heartbreaking from start to finish. I tell her that I naturally assume Harvey was to blame, because she never wrote anything as poetic or heartfelt about those four lost months.

I tell her this is what I am thinking, but really, I'm only thinking about how I want to undress her, and how I'm hoping that my philosophical nature will achieve this, in some perversely roundabout way. She glances at me.

"Don't you think that might be a bit of an unfair assessment?"
I watch her put on her lipstick before I answer.
"Perhaps, but if I can't jump to conclusions about talented people I will never know, then what's the point of existing?"
"Cheeky bastard." She smiles, but it's a tired smile. "There's no hope for you, is there?"
"Probably not", I muse. "But at least I'll have my fun on the road to ruin."
"You think so, do you?"
This time I catch her gaze in the mirror, and I hold it there. I wait a long time before I answer.
"I know so."

This is when she undresses.