It’s a haunting silence, the sort of silence you don't just hear, you can feel. He's too close to me. Or maybe I'm too close to him. That's the problem with dislocated moments like this; you lose your grip on space and distance. You can't tell what's near and far; you can't tell what's right in front of you. Everything feels like a photograph - you're frozen in one place, one moment.“It's awful, I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I should have just… given you a card or something,” he begins jabbering, his apologies taking on the coherence of monkey chatter. He slams the lid of the piano down, an unfamiliar hollow resonating that rips through the silence so sharply and unexpectedly it makes me jump.The thing is, I'm not sure what I should do now. I'm even more scared than I was before – I can still hear the song sizzling through the air like static. He can't be serious. He can't seriously think that I didn't like it, that he shouldn't have written it. The song has some kind of narcotic quality to it; I've surged a dependency for it.
