She flirts and finesses. Their feverish disposition. They are highly excitable. And at this very moment the corrugated cat rises and stalks obliquely over the keyboard, his cold nose sliding past her ear before he leaps and crash lands by the goldfish bowl, beginning the slurp slurping that makes her stomach turn, churning up the cliches, bringing everything to the boil. The everyday means eating it up, forcing it down, swallowing words, a lump in her throat and a stone in her stomach.
Writing is regurgitation, throwing up.
These are bulimarexic binaries, alternating currents. This was bliss. Off and on. That was life. On and off.