His hands are warm and dry against this body's skin. I can feel its heart throb.

"If you missed me, then why did you hide yourself?" I say. "Why send me your stupid gifts," I have them all, still, "and blot yourself out? How did you do it?" I ask, for that infuriates me too, that I do not know how he hid himself so completely, that I could feel no trace of him, that if not for his gifts I would have thought him dead and gone - not like a god, but like a mortal, into dust.