I'm alone with my baby at a quarter to five in the morning, hearing him hum softly and seeing his little green light wink cheekily each time I open a new programme.

Tonight I feel alone, and very briefly lonely...but only briefly. I sit in a pocket of stillness and become aware of the space around me and my present state.

It's very quiet now, but not quiet enough. The clock on my wall has a loud tick which I manage to ignore most of the time, but in times like the present, I become annoyingly aware of the tick-tick-tick. A softer tick from my small alarm clock can sometimes pair up with the former to drive me nuts on bad days, but tonight my nerves are in better shape.

The chilly, air-conditioned air lightly brushes against my skin and occasionally displaces a strand across my forehead. The plastic feel of the keyboard under my fingers is comforting, each curved key a cradle to my fingertips. I sit in my usual posture, which is an unhealthy slouch, my feet propped up on top of my baby's CPU under the desk.

I realise I still smell of Kelvin, which I like. A soft blend of his cologne and natural musk rest on my shoulders and upper arms and, for some reason, the outside of my left wrist. My hands smell of his face, and I remember the feel of his skin on my palms.

It's late. I should go to bed.