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BEFORE I GOT the call, it felt as if the oxygen was being removed from the apartment. We’d spent most of the day isolated from each other. She was sleepy and admitted it was most likely an after-effect of the projection. Neither of us dared to voice our skepticism about the experiment, which seemed in a state of suspended incompleteness. It also began a period of Seneca camping out in my bedroom with the door closed. Whether a show of exhaustion or unease, it only propelled me to explore the subtleties of my guilt. I took turns staring out the living room window, standing in the kitchen and pretending to watch muted television in the living room.
Any insecurity I had about her being something other than what I had led myself to believe she would be — virtual projection, robot assas
