It was already ten o’clock, and he’d switched off the TV when Dorian had gone to take his shower. It had been a quiet evening, due in part to Alan’s preoccupation. In his head he was still ruminating on Dorian’s intention to do something about his brand. The milk revolved in the microwave, and Alan got ready the two mugs, hot chocolate spooned into them. The hum of the microwave barely registered. Alan was deep in thought. After everything Dorian’s been through, all the insights he’s gained into the way his mind works, it all boils down to this—those four letters, etched deep into his flesh. That word which will forever remind him of one mistake. There had to be something Alan could do, because feeling this helpless was anathema to him. Once he’d stirred in the hot milk, Alan went upstairs to turn on the electric blanket. The night felt particularly chilly. Even though he’d soon warm up once he was under the duvet, he hated that initial chill of getting into a cold bed in a cold room.
