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. Jagged expression fills the spaces between us. Bemusement sculpts my thoughts as I watch a slitted vein coalesce between his eyes.

The letter opener he grips is shivering, as he tears open the note. I repress my urge to fabricate, to look over his shoulder. To do so is to grip his fingers strangely while he reads aloud his words without sound.

The man at the desk will later lay claim to that frail claim, that author’s frail claim, of knowing but one of the both of us. 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 what fills the room.

One of us follows the other into the breakfast nook, where a plate from the night before rests beneath a half-eaten loaf of bread. The sour, dry sensation filling my mouth is the unwelcome reminder of something that I’ve already forgotten, as I stop the man from picking up his knife. He insists that it’s for the butter, but its serrated edge tells me otherwise.

He relinquishes beneath the pressure of my glare. Looking out the window, he begins to insist that our gardener is stealing our peaches. I pretend not to believe him, with the passive hostility that I’m known to express.


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