I am embroiled in a mock Jacobean tragedy of my own making. The desperate struggle of A's gift-wrapping, the still visible white edges shying away from the sellotape make me want to weep, just as he did when he sat on my bed for the last time this evening and attempted to protect his new, rubied eyes from my gaze. If there is such a thing as Hell, then I am definitely that way bound. All the more soulless I am for sitting there, rubbing my neck against his and wishing it was W's spidery touch silvering along my throat and shoulders, remembering the way he scattered it over my skin after we had sex first last night, in the early hours, and then again this morning before we went for coffee and talked too much about the naivete of anarchist protest, and made him late to meet his father. A is violently jealous and petrified that W will have his shameless way with me. Too late. The thought that he may eventually find out is a leadstone worse right now, than the idea that D meet uncover just what I have knotted myself into merely eight weeks.