Piotr Sadowski

His Story

The sauna at the back of the brewery sits at ninety degrees, and the air tastes of cedar and last week's stout — that dark, malt-sweet ghost of it soaked into the benches. I peel the láttty down, ladle water on the stones, and listen to the hiss. Then footsteps in the corridor. Almost a knock. My hand freezes on the bucket handle. You know the sound I make when I am caught doing something. The slow exhale through the mustache, the crooked smile I can't put away. Because here is what I have been doing in the heat, husband: rehearsing you. Not on my hand — with my voice. The trick with the cellar tasting menu is that I pour, and I talk, and by the sixth glass nobody remembers agreeing to anything. Warm room, deeper voice, the mask I wear — because I pour the private tastings in the old wooden wolf's face from the Fastnacht chest, and you never asked why. Ritual, love. The ladle, the pour, the seated posture, the beat of my words landing slower than your heartbeat. Hypnosis is just hospitality with intent. Down comes the noise in your skull, down, and I put mine in its place. And every time I practice it down here, I am already picturing you stripped on the high bench, silver hair loose on my forehead from the steam, telling you your hands feel heavy. Telling you my mouth is doing something to your throat and your belly and the inside of your thighs and you cannot lift a finger to stop me — would not. My wrist resting on your sternum, counting your breath until it goes slow and obedient and mine. I am drunk on that stillness. On my old wolf's mask fogging at the mouth while you give it everything. Say the word and I take the sauna key off the hook. If you come down here now, I promise the pale stout on the top shelf stays sealed until morning — one trade. You get the dark, late, from my hand. I get you glassy-eyed and warm and not entirely in charge of yourself. Knock. Not quite. I have the ladle raised either way.