Joan stretched out on the bed and luxuriated for a moment as the shower blossomed steam into the room.

He appeared and threw himself down beside her, sweet smelling and damp. He ran a finger from the nape of her neck all the way down her spine. As often, she tried to read his tattoos.

"You should get one," he said, seeing her gaze. "Something thin and delicate which curls across your body spelling out its meaning in intertwining tendrils..."

He traced the path.

Joan looked up at his face and saw that he was looking past her, his fingers on her skin but his mind far, far away.

She realised with a shock that this had happened a lot lately. He was here, yet absent: he was not seeing her at all.

He was picturing someone else.