— Well, that was kind of inevitable, wasn’t it?

— That’s a bit heartless.

— It’s what foxes do, he said.-When?

— What?

— Did the fox strike?

— Last night, she said. -Did you hear anything when you were looking at the shuttle?

— Not a thing, he said. -Just the astronauts chatting.

She smiled. You’re such a messer.

— About what?

— Oh, just about how much they love Ireland. How’s Barbara?

— In bits.

— Did she say she felt violated?

— She did, actually, but you’re such a cynical bastard.

She was laughing. And he knew: he was home and dry.

It was later now, night again, and he kissed her neck. He bit her neck. They were a pair of kids for half an hour, and still giddy half an hour after that.

— Well, she said. -I’m ready for afters.

Her hand went exploring.

— Back in a minute, he said.

He went downstairs, went to the fridge-two mackerel on a plate. He looked in the freezer, pulled out a likely bag. A couple of pork chops. He put the bag under the hot tap, till the plastic loosened. Then he tore away the plastic and went at one of the chops. But it was too hard, too cold. He gave it thirty seconds in the microwave and hoped-and dreaded-that the ding would bring her downstairs. He stood at the kitchen window and nibbled at the edges of the chop and hoped-and dreaded-that she’d come in and see his reflection-the blind was up-before she saw him, that he’d turn and reveal himself, some kind of vampire having a snack, and she’d somehow find it sexy or at least reasonable, and forgive him, and put her hands through his hair, like she did, and maybe even join him in the chop, and he’d bring her over the wall so they could get Barbara’s last two hens, one each.

He binned the rest of the chop, shook the bin so it would disappear under the other rubbish.