“Louie, let’s go!” I call out.
She barks happily in the distance, so I step back inside and lock the door. If my overprotective mutt isn’t worried, I shouldn’t be either.
Still, there’s no harm in double-checking the windows and locks.
When I’m pretty sure I’m safe, I light my wood stove, letting the warmth wash over me.
Settling into my reading chair, I throw a blanket over my lap and sigh. But instead of picking up a book or turning on the TV, I stare into the space in front of me, thoughtfully chewing on my bottom lip.
The whisper of a touch.
The sensation of being claimed.
The way my body responded.
The thoughts I can’t shake.
Eventually, in a fit of frustration, I jump from my chair and grab my laptop. I need a bigger screen, a keyboard, and the ability to jump between browser tabs at the speed of my racing thoughts.
Okay, so what did that deliciously dark voice say to me?
I can’t remember exactly, but it was something about lupines.
Opening my browser, I type “lupines” into the search bar. Instantly, my screen fills with cheerful images of bright-colored, tapered flowers, the same frost-bitten blooms wilting in the patchy beds outside my house.
Could the voice know where I live? Or was that my subconscious inventing something to make sense of an unexplained moment?
I scroll further, reading more about the flower. Apparently, lupines are native to this area and considered an invasive species by some. Their seeds can be toxic to animals, and the name is Latin for “wolf” because someone, somewhere, thought they were responsible for draining minerals from the soil.
Hm. Not exactly flattering.
Why would I—or, to indulge my imagination, this invisible thing—refer to myself as something invasive, toxic, or wolfish?
My self-esteem’s not that fucked.
But my mind flickers back to my mom’s old book on flowers and their meanings.
Refining my search to “lupine symbolism,” the results are much more positive: imagination, admiration, and inner strength. Some sites also mention recovery from trauma, but that seems dramatic for a flower.
“That’s much better,” I say to myself with a soft laugh.
There’s what a lupine is, and then there’s what people choose to see.
Some think it’s wild. Invasive. Too much.
Others see a flower tough enough to survive anything.
I wonder which one I’m supposed to be.
I lean back in my chair, my gaze drifting to the spider spinning an intricate web in the dark corner of my ceiling. Maybe, justmaybe, I wasn’t imagining it. Maybe there really is something unseen, something dark, waiting in the shadows … and maybe it wants me.
A slow shiver rolls through me, but I don’t fight it. I should be terrified—of myself, of my reaction, of whatever invisible thing brushed against me tonight.
But I’m not.
Maybe I want to be wanted by something I can’t see, something I can only feel, something obsessed with me. The thought alone sends a delicious ripple through me, settling deep between my hips.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly.
