Written, edited and posted via iPad, just for kicks.

You look at me across the table. A pane of glass is all that separates us. Unthinkable miles are all that separate us. So easy to forget that you’re not right here after all. Not even close. Sometimes I wonder if I’m imagining you. Is that bad? I reach out to touch the screen, gingerly, pulling back at the last minute. Your hand moves toward mine, tapping the glass, and the sound of it is the most solid thing in the room.

“I miss you.”

“Silly. You can’t miss someone you’ve never met.”

“But I do. I can imagine what it feels like to be there with you and smell you and touch you, and I miss it. I want it.”

You smile, tilting your head down and sideways in that way you have. It’s either charmed or condescending or both. I know what you’re thinking: cute, but obsessive. I also know you feel the same inside but need to keep your distance. People close to you have never seen your vulnerable inside like I have. The screen melts your inhibitions like wax. You’ve said things–and done things–that you never would if anyone were in the room with you.

“I’ve got to go,” you say, standing up from your sofa. I catch a glimpse of your room. Territory so familiar but unreachable, like the face of the moon. When you stand it’s like the camera’s panning down the length of your body, and I close my eyes and try not to think about that.

“I guess I can let you out of my sight. For a little while. Where are you going?”

The corners of your mouth twitch in the smallest flash of annoyance. I broke the fourth wall, and it was too much. This isn’t real to you like your world is. It’s not the first time I’ve realized that. How do I win back someone I can’t touch, who was never mine anyway?

Now you smirk and bat your eyes. “I promised a friend I’d have dinner with her. Why? Jealous?”

You’ve given me an out. Thank you. “Always. Until I get you here, all to myself.” Not as cool as I’d like, but it’ll do.

You bend toward me and plant a cursory kiss on the screen. “I’ll be thinking of you the whole time. Naughty thoughts of you.”

“And you’ll share them with me when you get back.”

“Not a chance. I’m saving them up for Christmas.”

Christmas is what we call your visit. It’s all planned out, but you haven’t bought your ticket yet. After your next paycheck, you said. You wouldn’t let me buy it for you.

“I can’t wait. Christmas better get here soon, or I’ll have to come after you myself.”

You wink and kill the connection.