Boris and Marvin sat hunched forward, leaning bow-armed on their knees, eye to eye. There had been no more movement than a blink since I entered the room. Certainly my entrance made no impact. My presence was irrelevant, my demeanor comfortable. I took a seat over in the corner, slightly nearer to Marvin, and watched.
There was daylight between their noses but it was marginal. I could imagine a snooker referee leaning over them, cupping his hand to cut the glare of the room's strip lighting. Tiny follicles were probably making contact, bridging the gap and send urgent messages to brain and genital, the very real stimulation of virtual contact or the thrill of an accidental brushing of arms.
The longer I watched, the more I realised that there was no such feeling for either. I watched for an age as both grew old, Boris the quicker, and I watched as their bodies were drawn together without thought. Nasal hair sprouted and intertwined vine-like, pulling them together. Hair tangled and tugged and hands slipped off knees so that the two figures leaned against each other, balanced by a forced embrace.
On leaving the room I turned off the light before stepping onto the street, submerged by the morning commute.