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‘A privilege you don’t share with anyone. Except that twit you grew up with,’ he says, handing it back. I could blame it on him. I could say I tried again, and he wouldn’t let me… But I fear he’s too perceptive. In all honesty even if I had found someone I liked to date, I very much doubt I could open entirely. Not after everything that happened.

I know who I am. I overshare, I say things I shouldn’t, and I am for all-intents, very friendly. But it’s a ruse. No one knows me and I don’t know that I could stomach having it any other way, even though it’s what I crave. What kind of attachment style is that? I don’t have enough money for therapy to find out.

They wouldn’t like me if they really knew me, I want to say.

He continues, ‘What good is caring, when it’s unreciprocated. All this, all this time spent – on a ticking clock, mind you – for something entirely unbeneficial. What’s the point?’

The point is, I collect people like some collect rare coins. They’re all precious to me. I do consider them friends. I’d just never assume they’d think the same. Lavender said we were friends. Or something like it. She’s friends with the version of me that’s more palatable though. She doesn’t know… ‘Kindness doesn’t have to be conditional.’

‘Maybe it should be,’ he says, picking up a short story. His eyes scan the story written before putting it back into the pile.

‘Should is a throw away word.’

‘A woman who hates the word should and cares for what she shouldn’t – how unique.’

‘A man who scoffs at what he doesn’t understand and doesn’t understand altruism – how original.’

The quiet is deafening. Even the clocks ticking, muted.

Walker stares at me like he might like to argue more, but then he relaxes his jaw and looks away towards the small circle window off to the left I didn’t notice until now. The record finally plays its last song. The first few notes fill the space with a sentiment only jazz can put a soundtrack to: seductive dread. How apt.

Ow!

I suck in a quick breath and look down at where I’ve gone and gotten myself splintered from holding the frame too tightly.

I frown at the offending fragment and curse it under my breath.

‘What?’ Walker has come closer. I eye him mistrustingly.

He’s a bastard. He’s one of those crazy bastards who’ll make me pick it out with a needle.

‘Nothing,’ I say, hiding my hand behind my back.

‘Have you ever executed a successful lie?’

‘Have you ever minded your own business?’

‘You’re the one in my room.’

‘Which is an absolute state by the way, you should really tidy—hey!’

Walker’s shadows gather and pull my wrist forwards to study my maimed phalange.

‘Open,’ he commands my fist, and I reluctantly oblige. He pulls the finger closer to study.

‘Don’t touch it.’ I pull back, he doesn’t relinquish his hold.

‘I’m not going to touch it,’ he mutters, taking a closer look.

‘Don’t hurt it!’

‘I’m not going to hurt it,’ he snaps.

‘What are you—oh.’

My mind registers that he’s looking at me like he wants to eat me. In an instant I realise he’s one step closer to fulfilling his wish, with my finger in his mouth. I can’t feel him, not really. Just cool, insistent pressure where his lips close around my finger and suck. He’s looking at me with thinly veiled amusement. Or maybe the look he’s giving me would be better described as spiteful delight to see me rendered speechless.

I don’t feel the splinter dislodge. I don’t really care if it does. Not with the sound of him pulling my finger slowly from his mouth with a wet pop.