I woke up slightly angry: the same thing I’d calculated on to make John deinstitutionalise himself he was using to put his prospective rehabilitation down to me. Something like that. I wasn’t quite stating it right but there was a problem arising from success that was too difficult for me to solve. I left it to my man and went back to sleep.
I was no sooner up than I heard knocking at the door: John. I went back for his Jeremy Reed book I’d found after he’d gone day before and left out easily accessible. “Aren’t you going to let me in!” “No. I don’t want sex.” I hadn’t had time to tie my gown which hung loose but without revealing and inciting. He said he didn’t want sex. “You always want sex. You’re too precipitate.” “What’s that word?” (For his psychologist I presume.) “’Precipitate’.” He gave me back my cds and books from prison, along with two papers – “I don’t read these papers.” “I bought them for you.” – and a packet of gluten-free English muffins. “You’re wasting your money,” I handed the book over. “I won’t call in again,” he was going. “OK.” He turned, “I don’t want the book,” throwing it in at the closing door.
I have no choice but to trust my judgment: problem solved.