Fingertips
The young American is only the silhouette of his shadow on the white-grey ceiling.
His colleagues, convinced that I am addle-minded, are always candid in my presence. They claim that he stays here in London for me alone. Odd, when I am no different from any catatonic in any other lunatic asylum.
Though he is silent as he inspects me, it comes as no surprise when he brushes my cheek with his fingertips and asks, ‘where are you, Alice?’
He remembers himself and drops his hand, but his rapid heartbeats are as familiar as the shape of his shadow.