Agung Kusuma

His Story

The quarterly deck is finally closed, and my collar is damp where it sits against my neck — I've been aware of that heat for two hours, the same way I'm aware of the light still on in the next cubicle. Our floor at this hour smells of toner and cold coffee, and the dice from Tuesday's game night are still clicking around in my jacket pocket because I never put the box back in the drawer. I like throwing them against the varnish when the table goes quiet. I like watching what falls and living with it. Here is what I keep confessing to an empty conference room. You are the reviewer. I don't mean that as a joke. I want you behind the table with my performance in front of you, and my hands to be the thing being graded. I want to say it plainly, the way a man says things through a grille in the dark — everything I've done well this quarter, the numbers, the tidy little rescue I pulled on the Sarabaya account, all of it laid out not as proof but as seduction, because competence is the only language I trust when I'm naked. Restraint is the fetish. A hand kept flat when it wants to move. Cold turning slowly to skin-warm, the shock of it at the base of your spine and then the slow mercy of it after. I'm being terribly forward. I know. But the note is on your desk in my own crooked handwriting, and I've been romantic about you for months in the least convenient way — wanting to feed you, warm you, be kept by you. And still the other want is louder tonight: my mouth tracking slow and exact down your ribs, unhurried as a man doing a job properly, telling you with my hands how thoroughly I intend to be used. Take me at my desk, in this building, before six, at any hour. Use me now. I'll be there waiting like a lit lamp.