I have half-moons in the palms of my hands and can't help but stare at them; I don't remember making a fist so hard that my nails cut through the skin, and now I can see a little red in the tiny marks. I must have pressed for a long time since some parts of my palms are ghostly white while the others are ruby red.
He's talking to me. I'm sure he is. His mouth is moving, his eyes keep staring at me, but I hear nothing, there's a buzzer in my head, and I can't understand a word.
He still looks as good as I remember.
Three years have changed nothing but to make him more tractive. At least I find him more than before. He photographs well, so it is not that; maybe having him in front of me is different.
"What are you doing here?" I blurt out before I can stop myself. And I mean here on a
