I’m lonely the instant she leaves and beat myself about the head with all the things I should have done or said. Like shouting, I love you, louder in increments, a dozen times or more. Like sweeping her in my arms, lifting her high as I can and making the sun jealous with her shine. Like shedding my armour, being truly vulnerable beneath it all and saying, I need you, really need not want, require, or desire. All the things I should have done and nothing wasn’t one of them, like seeing your own shadow and turning it away.
Over unsweetened coffee and sweetly unexpurgated company, she asks me, ‘If I could grant you any wish, what would it be?’ I wonder if I should tell her my heart’s tacit part in this pact. My desire’s been given to me already, in fact, I asked for her and payed my price in full the minute she materialised. My soul in whole laid at her feet like some chivalrous throwback aimed at spare her spirit from the muck of the world. I smirk and tell her, maybe I’d like to be invisible, but she already sees right through me.
I can feel myself in the contact, the curiosity of her fingertips moving upon my stomach, soft and exploratory. Pausing on my hip, the stillness telegraphs her thoughts, impulses at crossroads, a litany like forked lightening crackling inside a soundless horizon. For a moment I can feel what it’s like to want me. If I hold out my tongue I will taste the shape of a snowflake. She led me to this place, though with little summons, barely breadcrumbs. Now, wherever she turns I follow, always a step behind desire. If she removes her hand, I shall be lost.