He sat at the small desk with a broken candle in one hand and a ballpoint pen in the other. He wasn't certain which one was useful or relevant, so he held on to both as if waiting for someone to grant him permission to put one or the other down.
With no small amount of trepidation he looked to his left, towards what he thought was the source of the high pitched humming. There was a radio over there and standing next to the radio was a tall thin woman, her face stark, lean, with the look of a political prisoner who had just been served a reprieve.
The woman was adorned in a dress that was made out of small, irregular shaped pieces of carpet samples that had been sewn together using fishing line, or maybe it was the monofilament line used in weedwhackers.
Whichever was the case, it did a good job of keeping the irregular shaped pieces of carpet samples together, and allowed the dress to drape around her gaunt frame much like a wet lumpy towel that had been thrown over a fence post.
She noticed him staring at her and reached over to the radio, shutting it off with a twist of one of the large knobs that protruded from the top of the device.
He said, "Thank you,"
She replied, "You're welcome."
He said, "I'm Alan."
She said, "I'm Pari."
They looked at each other for a few minutes without speaking another word.
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