"Nothing can have value without being an object of utility."
Marx read aloud to himself. There were papers crowding his desk, ink spilled and seeping into the wood. His good friend and working partner Engels had just taken home for the night leaving Marx in his study alone. In these dim lights all that went through Marx's mind was that handshake goodbye. The way Engels gripped his hand just a little gentler than the times before that.
Marx thought if he were to lose all sense but touch he'd still recognize Engels by that handshake, it was like he'd made himself familiar with every line and crevice of his palm. It lasted mere seconds, but the frequency of their small act of comradery had become routine throughout their partnership.
Lately it had become more of a tortuous act for Marx. To grip the palm of his good friend only to be left wanting more. He couldn't just ask, could he? Even the demand to hold his hand for a second more would mean coming clean about his feelings. Those torturous feelings.
Marx was afraid of what would happen if he were to reveal his love for Engels, he may ruin a good thing, curse himself for not keeping his mouth shut. Or, he'd simply get a no. Have those working days filled with tension and embarrassment. Not even knowing what Engels was thinking because they'd come to an agreement to "never speak of such things again."
That old familiar handshake would become nothing but another reminder of his regret. Or maybe it would stop. Rather than a solid grip and a smile goodbye he'd simply rush out once business was done.
Either way keeping his mouth shut seemed to be the best option. If he couldn't be someone special to Engels, he'd be his collaborator, his coworker, his working partner, his comrade.
