The exact art of late night conversation

Dragging cerebral cursor I edit myself in my own image; an underexposed reflection of a sleep-deprived visage in a black screen un-lightened by his feigned indifference; unnatural lulls, naturalised by electronic incoherence blaming signal fluctuation for delayed reciprocation that we both know is deliberate, a transparent invitation for me to send a second message, a desperate invocation and confess myself helplessly responsive. But dedication to the politics of our determined correspondence means resisting the appeal of my fading perseverance and the fear of him sleeping and seeing in the morning that I sent the last message, and lay sleepless, imploring. A buzz punctuates my dreamy deliberation and twisting; stiff arm protrudes with eager hesitation from the duvet-bound bliss of Schrödinger’s cradle across the terrifying chasm to revered bedside table. Password blunder, fingers fumble, fatal seconds dwindle aching neck cranes from pillow for more accurate angle heavy lid hinges creak wider against blinded reluctance as frantic pin-tapping finger mines bright screen for reassurance Tiny beep. I’m in. Tiny leap, it’s him. Infinitely cool. Revived deliberation; he programs me to type with digital perfection.

Lucy Hamilton