The man at my desk begins with a letter, reveling in something which may not end. Our typewriter sits in the corner, collecting dust. I sit in another, trembling, grinning as he turns toward me with jagged expressions filling the space between us. Bemusement approaches, as I watch the veins coalescing between his slitted eyes.
The letter opener he grips is shivering, as he tears it open. I fight my urge to relent, to look over his shoulder. But I do regardless. It is an invitation.