Page 71 of Black Reign

The pulse beneath my skin changes.

No.

Absolutely not.

This is how women get murdered in documentaries.

Or married.

Unclear which is more alarming.

NULL flashes.

GHOST: You disappeared again.

I smile.

VESPER: Thinking.

GHOST: Dangerous.

VESPER: Perhaps I am imagining Sergei.

GHOST: Please stop.

VESPER: White tank top. Two gold teeth.

GHOST: I hate everyone.

VESPER: That sounds like my Ghost.

The typing indicator stays there.

A long time.

Then:

GHOST: Your Ghost?

My chest tightens.

I didn't mean to write that.

Or maybe I did.

The café suddenly feels too warm.

I could correct it.

Make a joke.

Disappear.

Old instincts.

Instead I stare at the screen.

Then type slowly.