When Simon says, 'Did you get there? Was it good?', I say, 'No, you didn't get me there, you never have, and you never will,' throw myself out of bed and into my dungarees, and walk out of his glass-paned front door, smashing them with the knuckles of both hands on the way.

After that I lose about four hours in the casualty department.

It's my twenty-fifth birthday, and something about that last lacklustre sexual encounter has changed me. I've decided to be the sharpest that I can be ' an arrow rather than a hoop, a tin-tack rather than a teddy bear, and from now on I will be spitting out words like wasps. I've been living by someone else's rules for too long.

I get a taxi back to Simon's. He's boarded up the holes, but has yet to sweep up the broken glass. I thud upon one of the boards with my mummy bandaged hands. He opens it and stares at the white wrapped crepe. I move them back and forth in front of his eyes, feeling like a conjurer.

'Which cup is the ball under?' I say. 'Is this your card?'

He winces and retreats, taking small steps to his living room. I follow the threadbare heels of his socks along the hall, reviewing the facts as I do so to give me an objective edge in the confrontation to come.

'I want to make sure you understand what I said earlier,' I begin, putting one snowball sized hand on the mantelpiece and knocking flat a photo of us at the university graduation ball, four years ago, dated by our oilier skin and healthier hair. I hear the glass crack and the stand sticks up in the air like an exclamation mark. 'You have never satisfied me. Not once. Not ever.'
That's the most piercing remark I've ever made in my life. It feels good. Simon opens his mouth. At that moment he jerks back and swallows, his hands reaching up to his throat. Then he sticks out his tongue and gags, bending over at the waist, sticking out his rigid arms and shaking his hands, fingers splayed, as if trying to get nail varnish to dry.

'What?' I say.

He gags again, and shudders. Then he straightens up, drooling. 'Ah schwallowed a gee,' he says. 'Ah fink itsh schtuck. Ih eye froat.'

'A what?'

'A gee! A gee! Zzzz!' He flaps his arms again and does a weak impersonation of a flying insect.

Oh.

'Sit down,' I tell him. 'By the window.' He walks with small careful steps to the chair that used to be part of his mother's three piece suite and sits down. I follow and instruct him to open wide.

I can see it, upside down and yellow-black in the slippery pink passage that drops away into darkness ' its large. Its stick legs have to be tickling his throat.

'Geth ith ow,' he rasps.

I hold up my bandaged mitts and raise my eyebrows. 'How, exactly? God, Simon, I've always hated the way you put all the action in this relationship down as my responsibility. Sometimes I deliberately do things the hard way just to see if you'll take over. But you never do, do you?'

He starts, his hands shooting out to grasp the worn floral arms of the chair. 'Ith'¦ith schtung me agai'¦,' he manages to say. 'Itsch geddig harr to breeve'¦'

'In that case, it must be a wasp, not a bee.' A droplet of water leaks out of his left eye and his shoulders shiver. 'Oh, all right,' I tell him. 'I'll take charge again. Don't move and don't talk. I'll phone for an ambulance.'

After spending five minutes standing in the hallway and wondering how I'm going to do just that, I hit the table hard enough to make the receiver jump from the base unit and get down on my knees to press the emergency button with my nose. I give my details and leave the upturned table and buzzing phone where they are.

Simon is sitting, rigid, his eyes wide and his head back. His throat is swelling; the neck of his T-shirt is tight around his shiny red skin.

'They're on their way,' I say. 'Won't be long.'

He stares at me, his eyes wet. He looks like a naughty labrador on the furniture.

'I've really learned to hate you,' I tell him. 'Your insistence that we keep separate addresses strikes me as a way to make it easier to disentangle yourself if a better person was to come along.'

He shudders and makes a weak choking noise. Then he makes a series of gestures, moving only his hands in a style reminiscent of shadow-puppetry.

'It's a rabbit,' I say. 'A butterfly.'

He shakes his head very slightly and makes more gestures, pointing to his eyes and then cupping one hand over his heart.

It could mean a number of things, such as
I have a headache and indigestion
or maybe
it's obvious to me that you're heartless
but obviously it really means
can't you see that I love you?

'Well,' I say, 'You may think that you love me, but I'm now in serious doubt as to whether I love you.' I walk to the window and look out at the front garden, which he mows every Saturday, and the car, which he washes every Sunday. There's no sign of the ambulance yet. I try to open the window with my mummy hands, slip, and knock his framed signed print of Gary Lineker off the wall. It smashes on the floor. 'They're taking their time.'

Simon bangs his feet on the floor, and when I turn back to him, he gestures again, wagging one finger and then pointing to his feet.

He could be trying to say,
I can't go anywhere in this condition
or maybe
don't you dare walk away while I'm in this state
but obviously it really means
please don't leave me.

'If you don't want me to leave you need to give me a good reason to stay,' I tell him. 'You need to shake things up ' learn to communicate, learn to'¦to surprise me. Not just in bed. In life. Because you've never managed to do that. Not once. When I think about it, there's not one interesting thing about you.'

He shudders. The skin around his throat is puffed up and red as a fresh burn. His lips are turning purple.

'Have you been stung again?'

He gives a tiny nod. Then he puts one hand on his stomach and he holds the other hand out, palm up, as he raises his shoulders.

It could mean,
what can I do about this indigestion?
or
do you remember that nursery rhyme about being a little teapot?
but obviously it really means
what is it about today that's making you feel this way?

'Wow,' I say, after a stunned moment. 'You've just managed to surprise me. That's the first time you've ever asked me about my feelings. I don't know what to say.' I sit down on the sofa and put one bandaged hand on the armrest. It slips and crashes against the Statue of Liberty lamp he brought back from New York two years ago, knocking it from the coffee table to the floor. The torch bends with the impact and she loses two of the points from her headpiece.

'I suppose it's been brewing for a while,' I continue, 'but I think it was the fact that you forgot that today is my birthday that triggered it. I mean, you never mentioned it, you just tweaked my nipples and climbed on top of me. Unless that was supposed to be my present, because, if it was, let me tell you I'd rather have a bunch of flowers any day.'

Simon points to the cupboard he bought from Argos where he keeps his Playstation. He's making soft wheezing noises, rather like my grandfather used to make between cigarettes.

'What? You want me to open it?'

I struggle up from the sofa and cross to the cupboard. I can't grasp the handle so I bang my bandages against the MDF until the door comes off its cheap hinges. Inside, lying on his beloved games console, is a bunch of blue freesias, looking a little limp and smelling of rainbows.
'They're beautiful,' I sigh, reaching for them and managing to knock them out of the cupboard and all over the floor. I stamp most of them into the carpet as I move back to Simon and put one of my white snowballs gently on his thigh. 'Thank you.'

He makes a noise that's a cross between a groan and a sigh, and stares at the window. I can hear a siren, getting louder, and then it's deafening and the ambulance is pulling up outside.

'Everything's going to be fine,' I tell him. 'They'll have that wasp removed in a jiffy, you'll see. And I'm sorry about my mood swings. I'm fine now. It's all fine.'
His mouth flaps open and shut. He raises his index finger and points at me. Then he gestures around the room, at the trampled flowers, broken picture and dented lamp.

It could mean
would you mind clearing up a bit while I'm in hospital?
or maybe
look what you've done to my house! I hate you!
but obviously it really means
look what a mess I'm living in ' please move in with me and take care of me forever more, because I love you so much and I need you.

I kiss him once, on his forehead. 'Of course I'll move in,' I say. 'And I love you too. We can work this out. And I'm sure you'll make me come one of these days.'
I go to the front door to let in the paramedics, thinking that I'm glad that I finally spoke my mind, and said all the things I had been bottling up for so long. It's given our relationship the push it needed.

For the first time we've managed to communicate.

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