Slowly he paced from the windowsill to the opposite side of the room. It was seven steps to the foot of the single bed, or if you felt boisterous three quick hops and a lunge would land you flat-out on the mattress. He had perfected the technique long ago. Today however there would be no messing about. He merely shuffled forwards a while before turning around and steadily marching back to the window again. The weather on the outside was as miserable as he felt.
   He didn't expect her to let him into her house. Not after the row they had; the things she had said to him. He imagined the last thing she would want was him standing in her bedroom, where they used to have pillow fights and tried to have sex on the rickety and creaking bed without waking up anybody else. And yet here he was.
   It looked different somehow. Colder perhaps. The formerly big fluffy duvet in girly pink looked an inhospitable off-white. And those pictures she kept on her wall had always radiated the same free spirit she possessed. Now it seemed they had been replaced with photographs of lonely baby horses, abandoned. Even the books had changed. Where before they had been a collection of weird and wonderful tales of adventure, they now were nothing more than dirty faded pages filled with wishful thinking, barely held together by a broken spine.
   He started unbuttoning his thick winter coat, and pulled off his black leather gloves with his teeth. It would be a good ten minutes before she would be back, so he might as well make himself comfortable. With an accuracy achieved through relentless and lengthy practice he flung his coat over the back of the bamboo chair in the corner, serving no other purpose than to gather clothes and to look fashionable. A wry smile appeared on his face as he recognised the pair of knickers on the top of the pile. It was a Valentine's present he had once bought her. Crumpled it lay on top of a pair of tight and torn jeans. Obviously she had gone out the night before, looking her very sexiest.
   Not wanting to think about the things she may have got up to he took a deep breath and forced himself to stare at the wall instead. Something was missing from it. There was an empty space staring right back at him, and he couldn't possibly remember what had been there. He looked along the other items. Certificate of interminable goodness from the brownies, that bloody horse of hers, drawing from goddaughter… Of course. His picture. That was the gap. The picture of him with a big silly hat. For months he had pleaded with her to take it down. He hadn't been gone for a week and away it went, quite possibly torn up before it was chucked in the bin.
   Dejectedly he put half a stumble back and heavily sat himself down on the bed, which loudly protested immediately. Making an effort to raise his chest he took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled through pursed lips. He hadn't imagined it would be this hard when he had finally gathered enough courage to come over here. He felt like he was going to burst. His chest, his head; something was going to blow. He checked his eyes, but they were still dry.
   Still breathing deeply and slowly he managed to calm himself down a little. Then he remembered. Thrusting his hand under the mattress he rummaged around a wee while before triumphantly pulling out her diary. He had found it when he was looking for a sock one day, but never had he dared open it. Even now something was holding him back. In his hands was possibly the one thing so private he had never been allowed near it. He was allowed to have sex with her, but not to flick through this book. Therefore reading it after they had broken up amounted in his mind at least to little less than rape. The fact she had been heartless didn't necessarily mean he had to be too, did it? He flipped it around in his hands a few times. There was no writing on the cover. No flowers or ponies like the ones his sister kept. And no lock.
   He looked back up at the empty spot on the wall. He wondered whose picture she was planning to use to substitute his. The answer could very well be found inside the very book he was holding. He forced his face into an insincere and pained smile, and opened the diary towards the back. Grabbing a handful of pages he let them flick back to where she had last written. He stared at the page, but didn't read it. In all probability he would not be able to deal with it right now, and he needed to keep a clear head when they would come face-to-face again in a short while.
   Instead he leafed back to the day she had broken up with him. Never had he seen a document with so many exclamation marks. The elation could almost be felt transmitting from the pages. She had even drawn a butterfly. Not a very life-like one admittedly, but its appearance next to the writing told him more than enough. Angrily he slammed the journal shut and looked at his watch. She would be back any minute now.
   Putting both his hands on the side of the bed he pushed himself up and stood in the middle of the room, pushing his shoulders back and stretching his back. Then he placed the diary in the pocket of his thick winter coat, and pulled his gloves back on. Staring blankly ahead he undid his belt and in a single tug cleared it from the loops on his trousers. Almost casually he walked into the hallway, holding the buckle in his left hand and wrapping the leather around it with the other.
   The first room she would pass when she came in would be the kitchen. He squatted down just inside it, leaning his back up against the fridge. With his right hand he grabbed hold of the loose end of the belt and wrapped it around his fist. It creaked as he pulled it tight.
   With the fifteen inches of tough leather between his hands ready he waited. He waited and he hoped. He hoped fervently that when she came home she would not notice the broken window he had come in through.