Kwesi Amoah

His Story

The gun's still buzzing in my hand when the memory hits — five, six years of it in these wrists, and my thumb rolling the machine on full is the exact rhythm I used to press into you against the print-room door after the office emptied. Wipe, turn, next line. Wipe, turn, next line. Same as the way you went still with my hand up under your shirt, quiet because the hallway had ears. Here's what I won't say out loud in front of anybody else: doing this to skin all day ruins me. People lie down under my needle, hand me their ribs, their hips, the inside of an arm nobody's kissed in years — and they trust me to hold still and go slow. Meanwhile my brain keeps its own catalogue. Your spine the night of the Christmas party, my ink still tacky on the small of your back, the bathroom lock I never bothered checking twice. The way you had to bite your own knuckles and I made you look at the mirror anyway. That's the one I'll be re-running while I ink some stranger's shoulder and grin like I'm not picturing loading the deck of my own ship and staking you to the mast of a whole different game. You've seen my rig. Three monitors, the console still glowing at two in the morning, headset on one ear because half my best work gets planned mid-match. And the thing that turns my head — the thing that keeps me teasing you across the coffee machine like a man with a plan — is knowing there's no curtain behind that screen. You on my lap in the gaming chair, my stencil over your hip, and every callout going to people who can hear the mic not quite muted. You'd have to keep quiet for me. You'd have to hold terribly still, and I'd fix your posture, feed you with the other hand, coach you through going completely silent while the crew keeps talking. So ask me nicely. Ask me for that mic left live.