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I turned the phone face down, pushed the earbuds in and put on a podcast about Roman roads. A very calm man explained how they drained the foundations.
It didn’t work. Under his voice, the wall kept up its soft private noises, the creak, a sharp breath, and my cock stayed rigid against my belly. I pinched myself. I thought about the gas bill. I did not think about the red knickers on the radiator.
At some point I slept.
At twenty to seven the light was grey and my erection was so hard it hurt. I took out the earbuds. The bathroom shower was running, and over it Jess was singing.
I got up for a pee and found the bathroom door ajar, the mirror steamed. The shape behind the frosted glass was pale and curved, an arm lifting, soap sliding over a heavy breast.
“Tom?” she called, not turning. She’d heard the floorboard. “Is that you? Can you pass me a towel? I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten mine.”
I took one off the rail. She slid the screen open a few inches, dripping, and took it. Her eyes dropped to the tent in my shorts and stayed there.
“Oh,” she said. Then, very quietly: “Hannah’s not home till eight.”
The shower kept running between us. I heard the front gate, a click that was only the wind. Her wet hand rested on the towel, not wrapping it round her.