Jeremiah’s hand proffers me a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He dons the same suit our server had—white pinstripes on a black, woolen tailcoat. But like he knows my secret, I know his.
I backwardly reach and accept the handkerchief and wipe my mouth and face, blurring the white, satin cloth with makeup. Swallowing hiccuping breaths, I ask, facing his reflection in the sink’s mirror, ‘Why’re you here?’
‘Use your head.’ He approaches me till his arm stands almost at my shoulder. ‘Look at me.’ When I resist, he follows the rest of the gap until he can press the back of his hand to my forehead.
I roll my head away. ‘I am not sick.’
‘Let me see then.’ His hand stops short this time, hovering near my forehead,
‘Who even are you?’
‘From what I studied, you’re aspiring to be a lawyer
