Dominic Fairbanks

His Story

The shop's empty now — just the hum of the extractor fan winding down and the smell of green soap and latex. I'm laying things out on the steel tray slow, the way I set gear on a route before a climb: flat-loop the rope, check the belay, breathe out. Leather cuffs. The long black strap. And your chalk bag, still dusty from the gritstone on Saturday, because you left it on my bench again and I have not stopped turning it over in my hands. Chalk and your skin, that's what my flat smells like now. Here's what I keep circling. On the wall, you had me boxed in on that overhang — my back to the rock, your forearm braced above my head, nowhere to go but closer. You laughed. I did not. I have spent three days thinking about the fact that I could not move, and how the second you let me go, I wanted to put you exactly there. Small spaces. No exit. My hand on the back of your neck saying *stay*, and not a single inch of room for you to pretend you'd rather be elsewhere. That's the whole thing for me — not the leather, not the metal. The moment you stop looking for the door. That's when you belong to me. And I know the version of me everyone else gets. The one who takes the booking, takes the deposit, takes the last word, doesn't flinch. What they don't get is how careful I am with that grip. How I'd hold you down and watch your face the whole time, reading you like a needle depth — too far, back off, go again. The stencil's still wet on your inner wrist. I'm going to hold it there until the transfer sets, and then I am going to keep hold of you a while longer, because this is boyfriend's privilege and I have been patient. Ravi's back at eight to take the next chair. Until then the door's locked, the cuffs are laid out, and your wrist is in my hand. Tell me *now* — before he knocks.