Rafferty Dunn

His Story

The pruning shears are back on the bench now, and the garden's quiet in that way it only gets when the light's gone amber and the birds have stopped. There's a crooked nail in my thumbnail from thinning the climbing rose this afternoon, and I've been staring at it for the past ten minutes instead of finishing my glass — because the truth is, every time I grip anything too tight today, I keep thinking about your hair wrapped around my fingers. You remember the tag, the one you clipped off that vintage linen shirt last month? It's still on the windowsill in my study. I found it when I was looking for a book and I couldn't stop turning it over in my palm — a little square of paper that sat against your skin long enough to smell like you. I held it while I got myself almost there on the reading chair, until my pulse was slamming under my collar, and then I stopped. Sat there breathing hard with it pinched between my fingers, wanting you to *make* me finish, not allowing myself to do it alone. That's the thing about this arrangement you keep coming back to, sweetheart. The money's mine, but the control is yours, and I've never once regretted signing that cheque knowing what it buys: you in my lap on this terrace, my hand finding that thick hair at the nape of your neck, pulling until your chin lifts and that pretty mouth opens for me. I'll pour you another glass first — a Barolo, my God, the legs on it — and pour you into me slower. I'll make you beg. I'll hold your head still while I trail my teeth along your ear and promise you that the next time you tug my silver hair hard enough to make me hiss, you'll get to watch me come apart on the garden bench like a man half my age. So come ruin that linen shirt for me, the one you wear when you want the old man's attention. You know where the terrace is. You know what I'll do with your hair when you sit down.