At 19, I etch my university tutor’s name into my diary: Peter. It is 2014, and I think about him often, rehearsing how I’d react if – God forbid! – he asked to see me after class. I am credulous and hopeful, imagining what I’d tell my boyfriend if I discovered, lodged into an assignment’s feedback, an invitation for a drink. Two years later, newly single, I adjust my skirt while sitting across from Peter* in a bar, nervous. A year after that, he and I sign a lease together. It is all so sleek, until it isn’t. Eventually, we grow apart. Once this happens, he enlists my counsel – my expertise – insisting I help him make sense of the classroom hieroglyphs of love, sex and ethics after having…
