Page 7 of Wells

I zip up my pants and reach for the cigarette pack, lighting one as I draw in deeply and then exhale, never taking my eyes off her.

She breaks the silence first.

"For a man who barely talks, you give very specific instructions."

Her voice comes through warmly, with that easy edge I want more than I care to admit. She shifts on the bed, taking a sip of water from a glass she grabs off the bedside table. The movement is relaxed and unself-conscious.

I take another drag from the cigarette, and the smoke curls toward the ceiling.

"Keep enjoying this like that, and I'll start to think you're in this for more than the show," I say with a smirk she can't see.

She sets the glass back on the nightstand.

"It's after three where you are, right? Barely one here in Peoria, and I'm already losing the fight to stay awake."

Shit. Did she just tell me where she lives? I could have the rest inside a minute if I let myself: the name on the lease, the street, the door, why she's unemployed. But I made a promise to myself that I'd leave her anonymous.

The moment she has an address in my head, she stops being Masked_Maiden on my computer screen and becomes a woman I could go and find. When she becomes a real person, this ceases to exist. The whole point of this was that none of that could happen.

But I can't help myself. I want to know everything about her. If she's offering, then I'm not digging. "Peoria, Illinois?"

"Arizona. Peoria, Arizona."

"Ahh. Can I call you that? Peoria? It has a nice ring to it. I like it better than Masked_Maiden."

"You can call me whatever you want. What should I call you, then? Dallas? Des Moines? They're both in the Central time zone."

"You can call me Midnight. That's where I live."

"Midnight. Of course. So mysterious."

I don't answer. The less she has to connect, the better. We've never said where we're from, and I prefer it that way. I'm kicking myself for asking her now. Peoria, Arizona.

She pulls her knees up, wraps her arms around them. The mask is still in place, but everything else about her posture reads comfortable. She looks settled, not waiting for this to end, and that's what keeps me coming back for more.

She reaches for the water again and drinks half of it in one swallow, head tipped back, and I study her neck, the way it contracts when she swallows. Then she sets the glass down crooked on the nightstand without straightening it. I've spent seven weeks studying the parts of her she shows me on purpose, and it is the crooked glass I can't look away from, the careless small thing she would never bother to perform.

"You're staring," she says through closed eyes. The tips of her lips turn into a flirty smile.

"You can't even see me."

"I can feel it. You go quiet a specific way. But I like it, especially after the day I've had. I look forward to our dates."

Our dates. That garners a slight smile from me.

She knows my silences by texture now. No one else alive does. I give her more than I give anyone else because I can, because she knows nothing about me that I don't give her.

"Long day?" I ask.

"I had another interview this morning." She pulls her knees in tighter, her eyes flicking to the camera, to the black square where my face should be. She never pushes me to show it.

I don't say anything back. I don't want to know what she does because that's more information I don't need about a woman who is getting harder and harder not to want beyond a mask and a screen.

"The guy read my resume back to me like he was daring me to admit I made it up. He kept asking how a freelancer ends up doing actual work, what I did all day, whether I even understood what the role involved."

"Sounds like a prick."

"Total prick. And it wasn't even a job I wanted." She picks at something on the sheet. "I'm exploring."