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 that author’s frail claim, of knowing but one of the both of us…but only one. And so I panic when I fail to recognize that author’s name, but I hide it well. So must the man at my desk, no longer at our desk, who goes about his business in spite of the tension filling the room.

One of us follows the other into the next room, where a plate from the night before rests beneath a half-eaten loaf of bread.


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