The man at my desk begins with a letter, reveling in something which may not end. Our typewriter sits in the corner, collecting dust, while I sit in another – trembling, grinning as he twirls with jagged expression filling the space between us. Bemusement sculpting my thoughts as I watch the veins coalesce between his slitted eyes.
The letter opener he grips is shivering, as he tears open the note. I fight my urge to fabricate an invitation, to look over his shoulder. But I do regardless, and he grips my fingers rudely as he reads aloud the words, without the sounds.