As their eyes meet the image of each other's eyes their screens flicker with a sort of recognition. She smiles as he smiles so she smiles back and he begins to speak after which she shakes her head, her hand upon her ear. She gasps as he makes a guess. Scribbling quickly she bends forward, revealingly. He uses the time to refill his glass. She holds her sign up, grinning. He smiles, turns his mic off and mimes compliance. She breathes. His glasses fog from the open window; the air out there is most moist. She begins to write another missive and so he reaches for a clean-ish scrap of paper. Finding the paper he searches frantically for a working writing implement amongst the clutter of empty pizza boxes and tattered dustjackets for lost books and ashes and overflowing ashtrays and dust and unopened bills—and in so doing his hand knocks his drink, spilling the glass's liquid across the desk and onto the keyboard of his laptop. She looks up, searching for the right word to write. He sees her and attempts to type to no avail. Nothing happens when he shakes the machine, upside down. The image on her screen is of his pants, fluttering with such a violence, until she shrugs and logs off.

Recompiling her batch, she greets the dawn. Setting his laptop down on an empty pizza box, he steps outside to light up and his cigarette lights unevenly and then goes out. Trying again he finds his lighter has no more fluid so he walks across the night to the all-night convenience shop where he disposes the dead lighter and purchases a new one. She hums. And in between them, the curvature of horizon splays the land like organic lego blocks between the sea and continental drifts and divides and all they can see and asides—all the while in between them the heating and cooling of the air lay on the land like liquid glass across which no amount of redundance can pass for clear comprehension.

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