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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.