#17

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 expressions filling spaces between us. Bemusement sculpts my thoughts as I watch the slitted veins coalesce between his 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 lay claim to this author’s proclamation of knowing one of the both of us…but only one. I panic when I fail to recognize the author’s name. But I do my best to hide it. So the man at my desk, no longer at my desk, goes about his business, as do I, in spite of the tension filling the room.

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