Trotsky sat forward at the table perched like a starling, one fifth of his arse contacting the chair, absently eating his own face.
His visage permanently askew, lips puckered to the left then right as if air-kissing some imagined socialite, he had the habit of chewing the inside of his cheeks. He constantly rearranged his mouth’s interior, sometimes pushing with a distracted finger to give access to fresh grazing.
I imagined that I could hear the audible pop as another chunk of matter was bitten free. How long before he breaks through? Like a Château d’If prisoner patiently nibbling the cell wall with a spoon, anticipating that first glint of moonlight and freedom.
“What’s it got to do with you?” inquired Trotsky.
“Not much.” I conceded.