Before he finally gets locked out of his account, he tries one password after another, probing at his unresponsive memory. Each time, he's convinced that he's only off by one character.
Through cracks in the window, the cold seeps in and curls around my hands and ankles.
Around my wrists, they've placed interlocking plastic chains - some in pastels, others in night-glowing neon.
Cloudy bins of candies in toxic colors line the cold, bright aisles.
His nose has puffed up like a sponge toy that expands in water.
Dark-haired and silver-haired, they play a violin duet in the dim light.
"Don't worry, don't worry," he pleads. He doesn't know what else to do. He only wishes she'd relax, even as his frantic voice communicates the uselessness of such a wish.