I cry silently.

"Go on," the nurse whispers comfortingly.

"I wish I had paid more attention. I should have seen this coming. I should have," I mutter.

I look at the nurse and at her astounding features: that lush blonde hair with lines of silver and that button nose that fits, oh, so perfectly on her rounded face. She seems so familiar. I cannot quite place where I've seen her. I just can’t, and it’s killing me. I know her. Does she know me? She must, and she is so eager to hear about this that it seems as if she already knows what this story was about. After all, she is never surprised when I tell her of my “adventures” with my lover.

So, does she know? How? Have I told her before? How is it she is so tolerant to hear even the most grotesque of details?

I carry on.