Personal best

That morning, as Brendan was wondering why his chest looked so empty, yet so fertile, Chris and Rebecca were busy making the beast with two backs.

Having assumed the traditional position, Chris was becoming visibly excited as he approached the vinegar strokes.

“213, 214, 215, 216,” he panted.

As he reached 250, he let go a soft growl, and rolled off the prone Rebecca, immediately checking his large sports watch.

“Hey look, babes, 9 minutes 22, that’s a new PB!”

Rebecca forced a smile and let her lissome arm dangle over Chris’ sculpted chest.

It wasn’t that sex with Chris was bad, in fact, sometimes it was good. And she knew she had no right to feel like this. There were thousands of girls who would happily swap places with her, she knew that. Chris was successful, wealthy, reasonably smart. He treated her well, had taken her back after a well-publicised lesbian affair with an ageing football writer. He was a good guy.

But she couldn’t help but think something was missing. Was this how life would be now, for the rest of her days? The occasional well-meaning but fairly mechanical root? Chris certainly shagged like he did everything else.

She felt a great melancholy settle over her as she showered. She tried to shake it off, telling herself that today at work, she would be able to help a poor unfortunate live a better life through the wonder of speech therapy, but even that failed her.

“See you tonight babes,” Chris said, kissing her as she dressed, “I’m off to lick Mr Pratt’s gravestone clean.”

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. She didn’t know how much longer she could go on living this charade.