but my body throws up a shrug instead.
It used to be?—
a contract, a system, a body on call.
Until he had to stop at a bookstore for vinyl,
and gave me a kiss I can’t untaste.
And now my system has a hole in it.
As if I built it to survive a storm that’s already passed, and he’s standing in the sun, asking why the fuck I’m still hiding, like—you can come out now, Sonny. Weather’s fine. I got you.
Though, if my system's not enough anymore,
I’ll never admit it out loud.
I don’t say things I don’t want spit back at me.
When I don’t answer, Andrew falls back,
gripping the arm of the chair,
stretching his leg out.
Then he leans in again, resetting himself.
Or lining up for another hit.
“How does it work? This Baby Contract.”
Shit. He’s not backing off. He’s asking questions.
“You wanna know how it works?”
I tilt my head with an empty smile.
“You really wanna go there?”
His brow arches—“Yeah, I wanna hear it. So stop stallin'. If you meant what you said about us bein' real, then tell me.”
Fine. You asked.
“They sleep in my house, drive fancy cars, eat my food, eat my pussy.” I don't sugar coat it. “Pretty sweet gig. Luxury and a mouthful.”
He doesn’t react.
He knows I only throw knives when I’m trying to scare him off. And he just caught each one before they sliced into him,
and set them down nicely.
“Nah.
“You’re gonna have to walk me through it.
“I don’t know how this shit works.”
He taps my knee with the back of his fingers.
