"It's not the single-cell shark," you tell me.
But I knew that.
It's a mess and you design it
destroying distant blue galaxies
while sipping on viscous sin.
I bring you a crisp white linen napkin
to wipe your lips
so the cordial doesn't stain them red.
I take care to not impinge
while cleaning small drops of spilled liquid.
Keeping my head down I strain my eyes to the side
until they have an uncomfortable ache,
trying to catch a glimpse of the screens your glazed eyes ceaselessly scour.
I see foreign letterings and faces from many of the known worlds.
You shift in your chair and I dart my eyes back to the floor, my
heart feeling like it has stopped and racing at the same time, my
stomach in a knot.
"You've done quite enough there."
Your tone is cool and quiet, and it sends an awful chill
down my back.
Hastening out of the room
I get one last look at the melange of secrets that is your work
as I pull the heavy wooden door shut.
The bolt clanks loudly and echoes in the dark hall.
