We sit at the kitchen table to eat. I have a taste for salt, lately, and I’m cramming buttered rice crackers into my mouth, handfuls of food, not caring what goes on my face or in my lap. Our conversation is timetable negotiation; I offer you an hour, you haggle for more. Who will do the work and who will do the watching. Neither of us is willing to give in. I cut an overripe pear into slices. At last we can’t argue any more. I lean over to undo your trousers and kiss your stomach. The schedule is wrecked.