"Morbid taste."
"Maybe."
The word escaped from pursed lips,
mouth frowning in concentration
and fingers skidding on keyboard.

A whirr,
pop
and click,
and the iridescent disk plops
into the hanging tongue of a tv machine

"Ghost in the Shell 2: Innocence"
It flashes on the screen,
images fluro bright in midnight haze
of tea steam
and fresh dim sum.

"Stop it."
Soft and damp "squidge" of the pause button -
"It's distracting me."
The final sigh, "Ahhh",
and the power clicks off,
the room settling into semi darkness.

"It's like a cave in here."
"I like the dark."
Broken nails and ripped cuticles tap tap tap
out the words
zooming out and across the LED screen.

A book is picked up,
new thumbs turning,
flicking,
the dog eared pages;

"One of yours?"
A pause in typing
and a quick, rheumy red eyed glance,
a nod.

"Yes"
Another sigh, of understanding: "Ah"
and a bum sinks down
into the rickety spring structure of an old armchair,
newspapers and magazines slipping from its arms,
leaving them bare in night air.

The hand reaches out,
brushing past a clothed elbow at jaunty angle,
and closes around the warm,
moist,
dim sum parcel,
the package of sweet prawn and chili paste
- a tongue flicking out to wet greedy lips...
before being slapped away.

"Don't touch my food."
Another, exasperated sigh of discontent:"AHhh"
and legs draw up to close around body,
a human ball in the naked chair.

Silence
and tapping,
fingers clicking.

A stretch
and elastic body bends backward,
to eye the ball on the chair.
Another hand, fingers twitching from cramp,
picks a parcel,
hands it to the other.

Hesitant,
irritably pouting lips,
move to hover over dim sum.

Seconds pass,
minutes,
as tea brews silently,
leaching color into warm water blanket.

Finally,
teeth bite,
red sauce spilling,
bloodlike,
down the chin.

"Morbid taste."