trying to as it were love, or something like it, now, in the Britain of today

His heart was beating incredibly quickly while he waited for his computer to start up, ancient technology though less than three years old. He input his password and waited further. Four, even five minutes passed and he vomited into his mouth, just a little. Must have been the anticipation. Felt sick for days. Outlook was so slow to open; he would have to speak to the IT Helpdesk about it but didn’t dare, in case they had been monitoring the increasingly personal and occasionally profane content of his sent emails and would take the opportunity to remind him of the policies and terms and conditions surrounding computer usage within the workplace, and possibly even implement disciplinary action for his repeated breaches of same. More minutes passed. He became very aware of the stench of his own neck, like spoiled milk for some reason. Eventually his inbox popped up and and the varied folders updated at excruciating speed and he of course had no new emails. She was shit at responding to emails, really dreadful. Sometimes hours would go by if not whole days, the responses abrupt when finally they did come like great beacons of lustful notification slashed through the awful monotony of the working day. It had been a joke between them for a while, her fundamental tardiness, but as his obsession escalated harmfully it began to feel more and more like a deliberate insult.