After Dark

“Does—does that mean you’re…going to release me?” she asks, no longer playing, a hopeful stare locked with mine.

I breathe deeply again.

“No. I can’t. You belong here with me,” I respond, watching her face fall in disappointment, a tear trailing down her face. “Go ahead now, continue.”

I stand and kiss her head as I pace the room, getting lost in her melody.

I need to talk to Bodhi again, but what if I lost my chance?

But the way he was talking to me in bed, after we fucked, it felt as though he wanted me there.

Until I ruined everything.

All of that confidence and bravado I had a week ago is gone. I need to find it again and I need to go back to him.

I need to feel his hands on me again. I want to feel him inside of me again!

I reach down and pick up a bottle of water, downing the entire thing in a few chugs. That’s it. I’m going back there, God damn it. I’m going to make him listen to what I have to say, and then I’m going to make him fall in love with me.

I wish I felt as confident as my mind thinks I am.

Here I am again for what feels like the bazillionth time in the alley across from Bodhi’s apartment. He said he lost his job, but I am not certain he was telling me the truth. Regardless of that, he loves the third shift so if he is looking for a new job, it’s likely that he will stick with the same schedule. I hope he hasn’t left already. I’ve been here since 9:45, and I haven’t seen him yet. His lights are all off inside.

I pull out a smoke and light it up. I might be here for a little while.

Four cigarettes and a few self-deprecating thoughts later, his bathroom light comes on. A sense of calm washes over my body as I see him step in front of the mirror. I could look at him forever and never get tired of the view.

Okay, this is it. I throw my cigarette onto the ground and stomp it out. Walking to the front door of his apartment, I wait on the stoop until he comes out. After twenty minutes or so, I see him step out into the hallway and turn toward the stairs. He gets halfway down when he notices me and he stops.

I look at him with sad eyes, silently pleading for him to talk to me.

He descends the remaining steps and opens the door at the bottom, stepping outside. He doesn’t look at me. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks out at the street in front of his apartment.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, still not looking at me.

“I…” Come on Knox, make whatever you’re going to say to him count. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I know I messed up the other night, but I really need the opportunity to explain. My fetish—well, it’s not something that anyone else knows about me. I think I kind of freaked out a little when you asked me about it the other day. And I just got uncomfortable for a minute thinking that you would reject me. I didn’t explain it well.”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t leave either. He’s silent for a couple minutes before saying something.

“Well, if you’re going to explain it to me now, you better start tal

king. You’re already going to make me late for work, so it had better fucking be worth it.”

“Sorry, I’m just really nervous. This isn’t something that I am used to.”

He looks at me with an uninterested look on his face.

“So, the other day, you asked me about your hands and whether I only liked them or if I liked all hands. Well, the truth is, I don’t like just any hands. There have been others I’ve been particularly taken with; I won’t lie to you there. But, your hands—well, I’ve never in all of my years seen any hands as stunning and magnificent as yours. Your fingers,” without thinking, I reach forward and pull on his arm, forcing his hand out of his pocket, and I hold onto it gently, “they’re so soft and slender and I can’t stop thinking about you running them over my body.”

Staring at his hand in mine, I link my fingers with his before running my skin along his palm.

“You have large, strong hands despite your smaller build; there is something about them that calls to me. There is talent in them. You work with your hands the way a sculptor would, perfecting everything that you touch.”

I stop talking because I realize that I am beginning to drone on, but I don’t let go of his hand. His thumb moves over mine and my eyes move to his. His pupils are slightly dilated, the way one’s might be when they are turned on. Or am I imagining that?

Standing there with bated breaths, I’m hoping that what I am seeing—what I am feeling—isn’t one-sided. That it isn’t something I made up in my head. I squeeze my eyes shut and just as I am about to drop his hand and give up, he finally speaks.

“Meet me at the diner tonight; one o’clock.”