Alex’s hair was beginning to gray at the nape of his neck and he tired after walking up only two flights of stairs. I teased him about these facts only to deflect responsibility.
With every stroke of the pen or tap of the keyboard, I could feel energy pooling in my fingertips. Late at night, I’d touch Alex’s shoulder and feel its frailty, my fingers pressing down and feeling only bone. He was the last in a long string of men and had not been sought out like the others, but I took him in anyway.
“All that typing’s giving me a headache.”
It was a frequent complaint. That evening Alex was sitting in the bay window, a book open in his lap, its pages only lightly touched.
“Sorry,” I replied, still typing. “I’ll be done in a minute.”
Perhaps his voice was hoarse, or perhaps it was my imagination. I glanced over my shoulder and studied his face, half-lit by the light still streaming in from the window. When he caught me looking, I turned away.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“One of your books.”
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