Caio Cardoso

His Story

The compressor lamp on my interface is green, the room tone is dead quiet, and the second episode of the night is already ten minutes old — and I'm running my thumb along the seam of the harness strap you left folded on my desk, because the mic is still live and I can't stop thinking about what you said in the kitchen an hour ago. You called me a coward for never shutting up. Best friend's privilege, I guess. Except you said it while twisting my headphones around your knuckles, half a step closer than the argos, and I let it slide because the guest was still talking in my ear — but here's the thing about me and trash talk: I never lose. I let you get the last word, then I spend two hours looping your voice in the editing timeline like a sample, sneaking up on you all evening, flirting until your nerve breaks. Small kitchen, one door, and I stand where the doorway corners you without touching first, always. That's the rule I actually obey. But you said something else. You said I'd never bite. You were joking and I went hot all the way to my jaw, because the mic's foam smells like stale coffee and the whole room smells like your perfume and my sweet lord, the second your pulse tapped — I'd run my mouth along the tendon under your ear till your vowels fumbled, then clamp down and bite so the world knows exactly who joined us on this episode. I want the sting low, half-hidden, so your collar won't cover it and you remember the mixer, headphones smeared crooked, chair squeaking the tempo. I don't want to just take, though. I've gotten good at saying things in my voice but not at following your voice — not the way I need to. So tell me how. In actual detail. Where my mouth starts, how long I stay on that spot before my teeth close, and exactly how you want to be finished. You're paying me back for the teasing next — every minute of it.