The gap between you and me. The gap between you and me. In art class, the teacher would say to look at the spaces between objects. That was how you could see what the objects really looked like. Well. Well, I was fairly certain of your shape. I'd looked at it quite a lot. It was the shape of billowing wheat or sad violin music or a quiet discussion in the coat-room at a party, or something. I wasn't so clear on my own. I had looked at it, in mirrors, or in confused reflections from shop windows, and to me it looked unremarkable. Just the shape of some man or other. Could've been anyone, really. When I tried to remember my shape it was the silhouette of a murderer, a torturer, a rapist, or some kind of fiend. There was no end to how bad my shape could be, when I tried to think about it. Our shapes, together? The gap between them was bigger every day. I couldn't see what we really looked like. The only thing I could think of was the sad violin music and the rapist; very far away, never any nearer.