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 sculpts 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 repress my urge to fabricate an excuse, to look over his shoulder. To do so is to grip his fingers strangely as he reads aloud his words without sound.
The man at the desk will later claim the author’s claim of knowing us, but only one of us. I panic when I don’t recognize the author’s name, but do my best to hide it.