“We’re going to play a game.” he says, pointing to the liquid gold sitting at the ready in eight, perfectly spaced glasses.
He is wearing the same shirt he always wears when we have a night like this. A soft chambray that draws no attention. It’s my favorite of his. He wouldn’t know that.
Heis my favorite of, a lot of things. That, he would know. But he pretends not to.
Irish Whiskey runs down the back of my throat like kerosene.
“We’re going to write a story.” Inspiration flows in flights of amber as we weave nonsense into prose, the end of his sentences having nothing and everything to do with the beginning of mine and vice versa.
He knows this is foreplay for a woman like me. He pretends not to.
“I’ve explored these walls with rought desire as the tar developed all too soon. Like the rising sun we find ourselves waking here, on this path, wet by the morning dew.”
He is taking a match to the kerosene. He knows that he’s an arsonist. He pretends not to.
But I see the glint in his eyes as he watches me go up in flames.
He is no good at pretending. Neither am I.