Out the kitchen window, sunlight was only just lifting over the horizon. The house was silent. It was too early for the other two to be up, but it wouldn’t be long. They were both early risers; when one got up, the other soon followed.

I was not a native morning person, and particularly not today; dreadfully hung over and suffering monstrous muscle pains from being accidentally sat on twice. My head was hammering and I longed to get another couple of hours sleep, but the thought of being inevitably fondled awake by Jennifer in the near future nauseated me too much to stay idle.

So I groaned out of bed and made the climb down to the floor. It was slower than usual, and towards the end, I let myself drop the one storey flight down the rest of the sofa onto the carpet, jangling my bones, but not doing any serious damage.

I needed to be alone for the day.

On impulse, I crawled underneath the two seat sofa – the same sofa whose backrest I routinely sprinted along in order to leap onto the table where my bed was.

It was dark and cool under here; my ceiling a broad strip of black fabric that lined the underside of the seat frame. There were the woolly silhouettes of some bunches of dusty fluff lying around the floor, and some other stray dark shapes were scattered around.

I wandered around idly, investigating the forgotten litter. There were some desiccated food crumbs, coins, and a round shape the size of a cake turned out to be a lozenge or piece of candy, and its uneven shape suggested it had already been partially sucked. Nearby, a torpedo about the size of a skateboard revealed itself to be a tampon, still in the packet.

I hadn’t been under there long when noises came from across the room. There was rustling in the kitchen; the fridge opening and closing, the kettle steaming, and diningware clattering around. Stuart normally showered before eating breakfast, while Jennifer was the opposite. So I guessed it was her.

Around this time she normally attended my bedside to blow air against my face, tickle my feet, or see how many times she could prod my morning wood before I woke up and scolded her. I wondered if she’d seen that I wasn’t in my bed this morning.

A pair of bare feet came into view at the edge of the room, tramping across the living room carpet, following the edge of the sofa around. They plonked down side by side at the front edge of the two-seat sofa, against the seat I was standing under. The rows of pale toes faced me for a second: the glassy polished toenails and absence of hair on the toe knuckles told me it was Jennifer’s feet.

The feet then neatly stepped around in a circle, with tendons bulging faintly along the foot and up the ankles, while the sofa frame let out a loud groan directly overhead.

I stood, stunned for a moment, considering the gigantic ass resting above my head, just on the other side of the sofa seat. The sheer weight the sofa frame was working valiantly to keep from flattening my body was unimaginable.

The sofa squeaked again – almost painfully – as she must have shifted to get comfy. The sounds caused my pulse to rise into my mouth. I considered coming out from under the chair, but held myself in check. The noises were probably barely perceptible to her, but like a distressing orchestra to me; every time she shifted, the sofa sounded like the Titanic about to sink.

For several minutes there were the crunching sounds of her mastication, punctuated by metallic ring of a spoon. Occasionally the foot muscles flexed absent-mindedly and the toes squirmed as if attempting to bury themselves into the carpet.

Then the eating sounds stopped, and I heard the sound of a bowl knocking against the wood surface of the coffee table as it was placed down.

The couch creaked again as Jennifer’s behind began to shift around in the seat. Then there was a low, somewhat muffled grumbling, or a sound which to me was like a roaring inferno – burning directly above my head. At first I mistook this for more of the sofa’s groaning protestations. But then there was a feminine grunt, as if with frustration, and then another low bugling sound. The air seemed to thicken with irrepressible stench.

“STUART!” Jennifer’s voice made the air hum dangerously. “DID YOU GET THE LACTOSE FREE MILK?”

There was no reply, only the soft pattering of the shower running from their bedroom en suite.

Then, in a low murmur:

“FUCK.”

I pressed my hand against my mouth, which was beginning to stretch with silent laughter. I had to get away or I was going to make a sound and reveal myself.

I began to move so that I’d be standing under the other seat of the couch, but then a strand of carpet looped around my ankle. I tumbled forward and my cheek hit something hard and stuck there like flypaper. A minty smell stung my nostrils. My mouth opened in disgust but I choked the sound off just in time. My face had struck the half-sucked lozenge and was now glued in place.

By instinct, I went to grab it, but stopped myself in time before my palms became similarly fused to its lightly candied surface. Thinking quickly, I plastered some strands of carpet around the edge of the lozenge, covering it up before placing my hands against it, and then, holding it down, attempted to pull my head away.

I grunted, pushing against the lozenge, and my cheek began to stretch until tears prickled the corner of my eyes. Astonished by the pain, I stopped for a moment, thinking.

It had to be done fast, like ripping off a Band-aid. Closing my eyes and drawing on a well of resolve, I jerked my head away with all of my strength.

Pain ripped through the side of my head. I quickly bit my tongue to avoid screaming out. Then dabbed at my cheek frantically with my hand, worried my mouth had torn open. It was throbbing, but luckily felt still intact.

As I massaged my cheek, my nose began to itch. Some dust must have gotten up my nose while my head was close to the carpet. The next instant I was doubled over in the midst of a sneezing fit; each explosive sneeze causing a burst of pain through my tender cheek.

Above the dark canopy over my head, Jennifer’s voice seemed to roll across the sky.

“JERRY?” She paused, listening for a moment. “WHERE ARE YOU?”

I wiped my nose furiously, not saying anything.

The feminine pair of feet rocked on their balls and the toes came into focus again, and took a step back. The heels lifted as the feet tilted forward, followed by the sight of two bare knees which angled down and came to rest gently against the carpet, at the same time that a hand appeared, palm down. A veil of hair spilled down onto the floor as Jennifer’s face finally came into view. Her head was craned sideways, virtually brushing against the carpet as her searching eyes found me amidst the scattered litter.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING UNDER THERE?”

She gave my dusty hideout a cursory, somewhat distasteful inspection, before her eyes reverted to my face.

Then her hand rammed towards me, darkening to a backlit silhouette while seeming to double in size; the fingertips growing bulbous in my perception before blotting out my vision entirely as they reached me. There was no time to react.

Two of her searching fingertips struck me and would have knocked me flat onto my back except for her amazing reflexes, which instantaneously closed around the piece of my anatomy most conveniently accessible to her – my head – with the speed of a Venus flytrap, and rapidly withdraw, taking me by the head along with them.

Acute pressure drew around my temples. I cried out while my arms flailed and my toes dragged over the carpet, with the cool air moving past my sides.

Then I was out in the open, under the golden rays of the morning sun glowing through the windows, and the enormous masses of furniture swooped below my feet as I hurtled straight up in space before coming to a stop.

Then I found myself suspended before her face by my head, with her other hand cupped just below my dangling feet. The lush pink lips pursed slightly and then opened as if with an unspoken question as she moved me closer to her eyes, which focused intensely on my face. Her balmy exhalations fluttered through my eyelashes, scented with her recent breakfast.

My cheek must have been red or something, because she frowned at me, the hand cradled underneath me turned up and came surging at my face. Suddenly my vision was obscured by the end of her outstretched middle finger, which began battering against my cheek as she tried to figure out what the mark was, stroking and scratching it in a way that was not very gentle, and inflaming the tender flesh all over again.

My eyes immediately began to water.

“That hurts!” I barked, slapping at her finger.

“WHAT?” she said a little defensively, but her finger disappeared again. She seemed genuinely surprised by my reaction, which irritated me – as if I should have no rational objection to having my face poked and prodded and palpated by a giant finger. It was like she expected me to behave like an unfeeling doll, offering my body unconditionally to her tactile explorations.

Gratefully, her other hand slipped around my torso and the biting pressure around my skull relaxed as her pinching fingertips removed themselves from my head.

“WHY WERE YOU UNDER THE COUCH?” she said casually. “WERE YOU SPYING ON ME?”

“No! I was having some alone time. You ruined it.”

I knew I sounded cranky but I didn’t care. I was still tired from yesterday, plus I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep.

“ARE YOU UPSET AT ME OR SOMETHING?”

Normally, I would not have wanted to create a scene if Stuart was hovering nearby, but the susurration of running shower water coming from across the house gave me some confidence we were speaking privately.

“What do you think?” I snapped, digging my nails into her hand. “You used me as a buttplug!”

A smile broke out on her face, though she at least managed to stifle laughter, which would only have added fuel to my bubbling anger.

“HEY, DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT. THE BOOZE MADE US ALL A LITTLE CRAZY, OKAY?”

“No excuses, I demand an apology!” I punctuated the words by pounding my fist on her hand.

This went unremarked.

“I DON’T KNOW IF YOU REMEMBER, BUT YOU WERE SOOO ADORABLE CUDDLED UP AGAINST MY TUMMY,” she tittered, rubbing her nose against mine. “I DIDN’T HEAR YOU COMPLAINING THEN.”

Unsatisfied, I searched around for something else to vent.

“I do remember…” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “…that was around the time Stuart said something about you doing something to me the night of the GPR?”

I was vindicated: her smile disappeared in an instant. Her face went blank.

“UHHH…” She was genuinely at a loss for words.

“You know what I’m talking about,” I said pointedly.

Her jaw was clenched, but she didn’t look angry. She looked worried. Afraid. It had me taken aback. And then I felt a thrill of imminent victory. I had her.

She looked at me shyly.

“IF I TELL YOU, YOU HAVE TO PROMISE NOT TO GET MAD AT ME.”

“I don’t promise anything.”

“THEN I CAN’T TELL YOU.”

“If you don’t tell me, then I’m going to think you’re keeping secrets from me, and I won’t trust you anymore.”

She shook her head gently.

“IT’S IN THE PAST, AND IT’S NOT IMPORTANT.”

“If it’s not important, then why won’t you tell me?”

“BECAUSE I KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN; I KNEW YOU WOULD ACT LIKE THIS, AND – ”

“If you can’t tell, I’m already mad at you, so what difference does it make?”

Sighing, she gingerly drew herself down onto the sofa, placing me on the edge of the coffee table. She then leaned towards me, sliding her hands over her knees and clasping them together in a businesslike way.

She kept her gaze level with me as she said:

"DO YOU REMEMBER DURING THE FLIP, WE WERE IN SCOTT AND TASHA'S KITCHEN, YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE DRINKING BACARDI..."

"Yeah.” It was coming back to me, but in pieces.

"WELL…I HAD SOME GHB. IT WAS...FOR STUART. I MEAN, FOR US. IT WAS FOR THE FLIP.” She gave me a small rueful smile. “SOMETIMES STUART NEEDS SOME…INSPIRATION. AND I WANTED IT TO BE SPECIAL. BUT THEN STUART CHICKENED OUT, SO…” she began fidgeting with her hands, “…WHILE YOU WERE OUT OF THE ROOM, I PUT IT IN YOUR DRINK."

"What? You're joking, right?"

I stared at her, silently imploring her to say ‘Gotcha!’ Weird, cruel joke but that was her style I guess.

She gave me one quick look and then refused to meet my eyes. She wasn't shitting me.

Jennifer had got me drunk before, and slipped me Viagra. But she had never slipped me hard street substances. Some people wouldn't make fine distinctions – alcohol was a drug, and technically coffee was too – but for me, it was crossing a major line.

"I DONT KNOW WHAT I WAS THINKING," she was babbling on to fill the silence.

"Jesus, that's fucked up," I cringed. "But, even so, that doesn't mean..." I faltered for a second, thinking, "...I mean, I still would have used the machine anyway, though, and..." but then I remembered with a jolt of horror.

What had Remy said? I had gone dihedral instead of anhedral. That was because at the last second, I'd tripped. Because I was over the moon. Wildly so. If I had not been, and thus not tripped, the time travel would have worked.

It hit like a punch. Something collapsed inside, like my spine or chest or something had shattered.

I crouched down on the table, running a hand over my head.

Jennifer stirred uneasily.

Suddenly I jumped up again.

"THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" I screamed. "IT WOULD HAVE WORKED – I DID IT WRONG BECAUSE OF YOU!"

Her hand raised:

"JERRY, JUST CALM DOWN FOR ONE SECOND –! "

"You drugged me! We're not together anymore. I put up with that shit back then. But we're not even in a relationship now! And you still did it – what's wrong with you!?"

"I FUCKED UP, OKAY," now her eyes were glistening with tears, "I DON'T KNOW WHY I DID IT. DON'T YOU THINK I WISH I COULD GO B–?"

"Don't say it!" I screeched, raking my fingers through my hair. "There's nothing you can say to make this better. You've destroyed my life!"

“JERRY, I’M SORRY…” she choked back a sob, “I’M SO, SO SORRY…I – ”

Her hand came for me with timid delicateness.

“Don’t touch me!” I spat, slapping her fingers with all my might. “Leave me alone!”

I stormed over the tabletop to the end, leapt off, rolling onto the carpet, and kept going until I was out of the living room, and heading down the hallway.

To her credit, she knew better than to pursue me.

Which was good because where I was thinking of going, she wasn’t going to follow.