Care to tell me how you know I say thank you in the mornings?
My thumb taps the knife.One, two, three.
Not particularly.
Lindy Girl:
Me either.
Adrian thinks I’m spiraling, whatever the fuck that means, but he keeps the video feed on my phone.I spend hours watching the footage like a highlight reel, memorizing how she tilts her head when she unlocks her apartment, how she checks her mailbox with a little bounce in her step, how she sometimes forgets her keys in her door and turns back, mumbling to herself.
Every evening between four fifty-seven and five seventeen, she walks out of her office building and to the parking garage.I can usually force myself to wait until she’s home to message her, but only because I’m watching her the whole way.
Sleep Lindy girl.I’ll keep watch.
Lindy Girl:
That’s not how phones work.
Mine does.For you, mine does.
The fourth time Caleb says he thinks I need to get laid, I break his nose.Slight overreaction, maybe, but this has less to do with sex than Caleb will ever believe.Not that I don’t think about it.
I think about it too damn much.The soft underside of her wrist under my thumb.The way her breath would stutter if I crowded her against a door and told her to give me her eyes.The line of her throat when she swallows.I catalog stupid things because I’m not allowed the real ones yet.How her mouth will taste like coffee and whatever toothpaste she uses.How the corner of her lip will catch on my knuckle when I make her sayplease.I picture her on my lap with a book, trying to read while I turn pages slowly just to make her squirm.One button for one confession.One inch of skin for one truth.My mouth following every mark I put on her until she forgets to be careful and lets the sound out that’ll only ever belong to me.
I practice patience.I watch.I keep the rules I made with Sava like rosary beads.The want burns, but I hold the line.Patience is protection for both of us.For a while, the lie works.
But I know how this ends.You don’t put a hurricane behind glass and expect the glass to hold.One day I’ll crack.On purpose.I’ll take every saved second, every moment I had to force patience and turn them into slow hands, slower orders,yesesandgood girls.And there won’t be any going back.I can wait.Iwillwait.But when I stop waiting, that’ll be the last patient thing I ever do.
I think about quieter things too.Her in my kitchen in one of my shirts, feet on my thighs while we eat takeout from the carton, her laugh caught under my palm, the world narrowed to the size of my hand on her hip.Spending every second worshiping, ruining her.
Atlas fucking grins like this is the best entertainment he’s ever had.And maybe it is.None of them have ever seen me like this.I’ve handled blood and bodies better than I’m handling one woman.
Melinda Paige Westbrook.
When she texts me during the day, it’s like being resuscitated and taking my first clean breath.But when my phone buzzes at one forty-one in the morning, I stop breathing all together.
Lindy Girl:
Someone’s at my door.The handle’s jiggling.I’m probably overreacting.I just…I’m scared.
I’m out of bed, pulling on jeans, boots, strapping my knife to my hip.
Call 911.Stay away from the door.Lights off.Phone on silent.Go to the bathroom and lock it.I’m close.
I’m not, but I will be.I’m out the door when the second text lands.
Lindy Girl:
Okay.In the bathroom.
I ride to her building not giving a single fuck about red lights or traffic cams.I cut the engine two blocks out and run the rest of the way.My pulse is even; my breath is not.The street camera on my phone gives me nothing.I hate that I can’t see her floor.Hate it so much my molars ache.I triple check everything outside the building before I run inside and up the three flights of stairs.
Do you hear anything?
Lindy Girl:
No.It stopped.I think.I can’t tell.I hate this.
