Blank--story in progress

I opened the door and I saw a blank. It was vaguely man-shaped. As the door swung past his shimmery outline he tipped his blank hat and gingerly stepped into my apartment.

I think I'll name him Scott.

He doesn't have a smell exactly, the blank, but he isn't exactly odorless. My nose wants to smell something when he's around, but it doesn't. It gets nose-strain. Nose-ache. I want to spray him with perfume.

Scott has moved in now. He sleeps on the couch most nights and waves at me with his eerie fill-in-the-blank hand when I leave for work in the morning. When I come home I hear him turn off the TV--Dr. Phil--when I open the door. I think he uses the phone, too.

I cook for him and he eats it even though he doesn't really have a mouth. I want to tie a string to a ravioli and see where it goes when he swallows, but I haven't yet. After all, it may choke him.

On the weekends we go for drives or sit in the park and work on the crossword. He's very helpful with it, even though he can't speak.

It's like having a dog without the drool or a cat without the mind games.

Last night, I woke up to see Scott climbing into bed next to me. His blank body sliding beneath the sheets that fell flatly against the firm mattress. In the morning he was spooning me, his arms weightless and cool.

We didn't talk that night about the transgression, the new course our relationship was charting. We didn't have to.

He's taken to cooking me food. Empty steaming bowls, plates piled high with nothing at all, glasses redolent with absence. I devour it all.