Your truth?
When I want something, I build my life around getting it.
Lindy Girl:
What do you want, Cassius?
I look at the ceiling and make the decision to tell her the truth.That is the game after all.
For you to keep telling me things only I get.For you to trust me with all your truths.
I set the phone down, breathe, pick it back up.
Your dare: Write my name on the inside of your wrist.You can wash it off in the morning.
Lindy Girl:
You’re lucky I have a pen on my nightstand.Done.
A photo of the inside of her wrist follows.Cassiusinked there in small, tidy letters.The pen lies uncapped on the sheet beside her, a smudge of black on her thumb.The corner of a book peeks into frame.
Good girl.
I don’t breathe.The room narrows to a pulse under tidy black letters that spell my goddamn name.Heat knifes low; my cock twitches.She did it, and she sent proof.For me.I zoom in, veins, ink, that smudge on her thumb.My thumb finds the hilt.One, two, three.The leash snaps tight.I save the photo.I save it again.
Sleeping with me on your pulse.
Lindy Girl:
Your truth?
True: I don’t ever give pieces of myself away.With you, I forget why I shouldn’t.Dare me.
Lindy Girl:
Send a picture.Nothing wild.
I grin despite myself.Collar open, tie already gone.I roll a cuff, find a pen and printLindyover my wrist vein.I frame the shot from throat to belt making sure she can see her name sitting over my pulse.Snap.Send.
I want to sleep with you on my pulse, too.
I set the timer.Thirty minutes.Knife.Hip.One, two, three.I stare at my name on her wrist until the screen dims and reminds me that this was just a game.Then I admit my scariest truth of all: If I burn, I’ll burn kneeling, before a woman who only exists in words.
The next morning on my way to work, I swing past her street.I know she hasn’t left for work yet, and I plan to beat her there.I watch for a few minutes, before pulling my phone from the chest pocket of my jacket.
Send someone to replace the two out streetlights by Melinda’s place.
I text this in the group chat because I don’t care which of my brothers do it as long as it gets done.This isn’t me caring about her.It’s me caring about safety in general.I just took six girls out of a van last night for fucks sake.No one should be getting home in pitch dark.
I wait, helmet on, and notice a blind spot on my screen, compare it with my eyes, where a man could wait and not be seen.The knowledge bothers me, but blind spots always do.It’s not because it’s her.My knife knocks my hip again.One, two, three.
I text Adrian.
I want alerts on motion.Cars that slow, men who linger.
Adrian:
You’re taking this new hobby too seriously.
