Of course, one can truly be thinking nothing only if one is dead. When I was sure she wasn't going to ask me anything else, I went to the toilet. All of this seems very clear now in my mind, as I prepare myself to write the novel which first suggested itself as I stood barefoot on the cold floor of the bathroom ten years ago. Perhaps these events actually occurred on separate occasions, after distinct instances of love making. However, since that act, after a very short time during the first year we were together, soon became indistinguishable from one time to the next, it is impossible to conclude the matter with any degree of certainty.
Memory is, after all, far more than the simple replaying of the past.
The image constantly amended with each successive act of recollection, until what is left bears little relation to what was originally seen. I realized immediately that it must surely have been so. Memories have their own vocabulary of associations and prompts. Often, while urinating, I am reminded of an unfortunate incident which took place when I was very young. In my haste to zip up my trousers after using the toilet, I managed to catch a very sensitive piece of skin between the two rows of teeth.