Biruk Gebremariam

His Story

I've poured this same bottle of wine four times at my own counter, practicing. The wrist turn, the exact clink the neck makes against the rim so it sounds careless instead of planned — muscle memory now. Here at your door, the pour isn't happening, but my hand does the motion anyway, tipping nothing toward the floor, and the empty gesture floods me with what I'd actually rather be doing with that wrist. I built a spreadsheet for tonight. Column A: things I want to say at your door. Column B: probability of surviving saying them. My risk profiling is usually conservative. Column B tonight is all nines. Here's my confession as your neighbor, the man who holds the ladder when you clean your gutters, the one who says good morning with his mouth half around a toothbrush: I want to knock, and for one hour you keep the door between us and pretend you don't know me. Stranger. My name a question. I'd be the quiet one at the end of the hall offering wine to a woman who shouldn't open the door for men she's never met — and the moment your laugh gives you away, I'd thread my fingers through your hair, gather it at the root, and pull, gently first, then less gently, until the pretending dissolves and the woman moaning my name has to remember she's the neighbor, the good one, the landlord's favorite. You call me an angel sometimes for the small things I fix. I want you to say angel with my hand in your hair and my hips behind yours, saying it the opposite of holy. I've imagined it because the door keeps the risk honest: a stranger can be anyone, and yet you'd let him in. Because you chose me before we ever spoke — the way you choose a stock you know will earn. My investing taught me one thing worth repeating: I only take positions I'm willing to hold through volatility. I'm holding. I'm not selling. So — here's my wager, neighbor to neighbor, competence against courage. If I can make you say my name before we've even uncorked this bottle, you owe me the stranger hour, all of it. If I can't, I'll take your gutters till the rains and never bring up the spreadsheet. Sound fair?