Janine was still chewing when she returned to the living room. Her cheeks were greasy, and a piece of broccoli dangled from her chin like an upside-down banzai. She closed the Tibetan monastery doors Mark had bought on eBay, and ran her fingers over the splintered red wood.

The second photograph she had chucked into the dying Kameeldoring embers caught her eye; it was still smoldering in the firebox, and the image of Clive forcing her legs open where she sat in the wheelchair (“Give her a good seeing to, pardner!”) was still visible. A feeling of disgust pierced her heart and a familiar phantom crept up between her thighs.

“Focus on the inside, darl.”

I will not, you old bitch! Janine wasn’t sure if she had spoken; she held her breath for a moment and focused on the photo album lying open in front of the fire screen like a blank bible. From where she was standing it looked like the decorative figures of Adam and Eve were about to climb out of the mesh, dive into the ‘bible’, and start Genesis on the back page.

Janine took a step towards the fireplace; the phantom pain which had settled between her legs a few seconds ago faded, and crept into the ligaments of her left knee. Flinching, she bent down and pushed her kneecap into place. She limped back to the fireplace. Some of the plaster on the inside of the chimney came loose, dropped into the firebox, and disappeared into the ash like giant raindrops. Janine took out Mark’s fancy brass fireplace poker (“Divorce lawyers, Janine—let me tell you—always get the best deals.”), and laid it down on the terra cotta tiles. She reached into the tool stand, and took out a pack of firelighters from which she broke off three chunks. Then, holding them up like in front of her face like she was going to perform a magic show, she took out Mark’s Zippo from her pocket, and lit them.

There was only one piece of Kameeldoring left in the log basket. Janine took it out and placed it over the firelighters in the firebox. More plaster came down, this time bouncing off the grate first before being swallowed by the ash. Janine thought of sticking her head in to have a peek, but flashes of Wile E. Coyote made her take a step back. Crouching down on her right leg—right arm for support—she stretched out her left knee and sat down. “Don’t cross your legs when you sit down.” Nurse Tomoko’s words felt so real that Janine turned around expecting to see the nurse standing by the red door, yellow plastic ballpoint pen between her cherry-red lips, and tap-tapping on a clipboard with her Japanese-flagged finger nails.

Janine picked up the photo album; the next photo came out of the plastic sleeve by itself and fell into her lap. ‘I guess you’re next.’ Janine held it up to the fire light, ‘Humph. Would’ve made a great postcard.’