She is making notations in a notebook, and then she pulls a glowing screen toward her, and through the glass I hear the tap of fingers pit-a-pat on the keys.
“I’m on deadline,” she says, “but I might be able to get out for a walk once this lot comes out … assuming it comes out okay.” He’s nodding in the corner, eyes on her, avid.
As if he’d like to eat her up, though not in the usual sense.
Bad form to completely drain the prey — though it happens once in a while — but that’s not what he has in mind.
“I’ll sing for you,” he says. She smiles, and he commences the repertoire.
Well, no doubt it’s a novelty to her, but I have heard ‘Over There’ or ‘Hello Central, Get Me No Man’s Land’ more than once, shall we say, in the last century.