"You've been surrounded by people who don't care your whole life; why put me in that box?" Perhaps it hurt him that I said he didn't love me, questioned why he cared. I am silent for a few seconds. "I don't know," I croak this. "Habit, I guess." He's silent. He begins his work.

Something echoes as he sips his coffee. Mind must prepare for work: he must do his best. I shouldn't bother him. He can set this aside for another time, set me aside for later. That is what the healthy-minded ones must do. I caress his boundaries and hold them gingerly. I replay his voice and his stone-set tone. My throat dry and his throat wet. Clicks and types. Earlier he said he was going to be able to look at me, look at me in my eyes. His voice is serious now; in that same direct melody he sings when he dislikes something. The sound of curtail. His tone was cut-short but the hoarseness and fumes of scars lingered as hot breaths that clung for an answer with each word.

I fluff my hand on my chest, on and inside my chin: resting my warm chin on my warm hand: clammy eyes and softer sighs (you will). One at a time; what is mine I want to be yours; one at a time, the cool reacting with the warm.