Richard Dickerson

After a beat spent watching the look on Ellis’ face, Richard unplugs entirely to look away, aside, and there’s the tension hackled in at the scruff of his neck. Beneath Ellis’ fingers, the regular feather of Thot’s heartbeat has quickened into an unsteady jog. Her ears are laid flat where she’s sprawled, wide eyes aimed blank at the ceiling.

“I’m not making a point.”

He traces back at a loss, facing down the possibility that he’s somehow broached this subject entirely on his own.

“You asked me to explain why it was relevant.”