I think about this for a moment. “All right,” I conced
e, and start writing.
He places a hand, fingers splayed, in the center of the page, and I have to stop writing and look at him. “I wasn’t asking.”
My insides quail. “Yes, daddy,” I whisper.
His mouth quirks, and he looks at me a moment as if he’s forgotten what he’s doing. I roll the kitten figurine at the top of the pen against my lips, hoping he’ll go on forgetting.
“Stop it. You can’t wrap me around your finger like that.”
“I can try,” I say, smirking.
He taps his forefinger against the page and I finish what I was writing.
There are more rules, and he rattles off the rest of the list. No eating on the couch, except treats. No eating in bed, ever, unless it’s my birthday. No staying up after eleven unless it’s a date night or a special occasion.
“I suppose I should add something about tidiness seeing as you’ve told me you’re messy. Glasses go in the dishwasher. Dirty clothes go in the hamper. Towels go on the towel rails.”
“I know where things go,” I mutter, writing it all down.
“Oh, yes? I can just hear you saying, ‘But, daddy, it isn’t on the list,’ in that sweet little voice of yours the second I tell you to do something that you haven’t written down. Speaking of, the list isn’t exhaustive. I think you should add ‘Do as daddy says’ last of all. And underline it. Put hearts around it if you like. Good girl. Any questions?”
I look down the list. Everything seems doable, even though he’s taken all my sugary things away from me. And the rules aren’t as controlling as I thought they’d be. “There are no rules about what I can and can’t wear, or if I have to get a manicure or a wax or whatever,” I muse.
He frowns. “Did you think there would be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Babygirl, these rules aren’t so I can dictate how short your skirt is or how you look. I want you to be you. The rules are for your well-being. So you don’t get sick or tired or learn bad habits. Okay?”
I think about this. “Okay.”
“Good girl. Go put them on the fridge. There’s a magnet for you.”
It’s a kitten magnet, of course. I fix the sheet of paper to the fridge with it. He comes up behind me, puts his arms around me and kisses my neck.
I trace what he’s written with my fingertips. “I like your handwriting.”
“Thank you.”
“I see you writing by hand a lot. Why is that?”
He scoops me up and carries me through to the couch and sits down with me on his lap. “It relaxes me. I don’t like emails. It’s surprising how much business correspondence you can get done through the mail when people just accept it’s the way you communicate. And I like using my hands.”
I trace the pads of his fingers. I like him using his hands, too. They are almost twice the size of mine and very firm. “What else relaxes you?”
“You, when you’re good. Would you like your present now?”
My eyes go wide, as if I haven’t seen the pink box sitting on the dining table. “What present?”
He tweaks my nose. “Cheeky. Go and get it.”
I do, and we sit together as I open it. “What is it?” I ask, pulling off the ribbon.
“Well, you’ll see in a second,” he drawls.
I tear off the paper and open the box, which is about the size of a shoebox, and see an assortment of pretty, pastel-colored things. Grinning, I start sorting through them.