He sits across the room, watching her, arm folded across his chest. She can’t see him, of course. His technology prevents interaction.

He watches her write in her journal, pen scratching across paper, ink stretching out in long, black ribbons behind the nib. He is patient, waiting for the inevitable caesura of her thoughts, for that moment of protracted contemplation.

He does not have to wait long.

She sets the pen in the crease of the journal and looks up. Her eyes are faraway, thoughtful, dreamy.

He stands, adjusting his coat, and pulls a small timepiece from his pocket. He goes to her and holds the device just in front of her eyes.

“I am very sorry about this,” he apologizes, unnecessarily.

He clicks a button and space-time folds briefly. The hands on the timepiece jump forward several minutes.

She will never miss that time. She will never know those minutes are missing from her life. She will just assume she got lost in thought.

These are delicate moments. He always picks them very carefully.

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