The velvet is a heavy shroud, tasting of dust and secrets. I am a ghost in a metal skin, bound by leather, silenced by a sphere of red rubber. Behind me, the rhythmic hum of a tender hand presses...

The train was a vessel of nerves, a long hour of motorway and silence carrying me toward the possibility of a cup of tea and the illicit weight of years of shared screens. My wife knows nothing of this...