This was the third time that she slept with him. It upset her that he asked for permission. Why would he ask her for permission to do what he had already done twice before? It was as though he regarded them as a series of isolated incidents. He didn't think of her as forming an intelligible plot. There was no story outside of his erotic life, nothing to indicate that he cared about her at all actually. Just following a script to reassure himself that he wasn't doing anything wrong before he took what he wanted.

She felt miserable. The first time there had been excitement and hope. The second time there had been desire. The third time she was only able to think about the unbridgeable gap between them, because although their faces were pressed together, his question had shattered any illusion of intimacy. He concentrated on his body; she could only feel a weight pressing against her chest as the events leading up to this ran through her head again and again. She didn't want him to finish. She didn't want to have to look him in the eye and conceal her sadness from him. Would it be better if he left her alone? Maybe if he stayed she could cling to his hips and feel a little less lonely for a little longer.