Rodrigo Faria

His Story

The fuse box in your hallway is still hanging open, six screws on the terrazzo in a neat little row, and I've been crouched here long enough that my knees have gone numb. That's not the reason I stopped. I stopped because you leaned in over my shoulder to look at the breaker and your hair brushed my ear and I forgot what a neutral wire even does. I'm not proud of that. I'm a little proud of that. Here's the thing about my job — the whole point is you have to finish. Dead circuit, no lights, no phone charger, and I'm supposed to be the guy who closes it up. I don't want to close it up. I want the fuse box to stay open like a door I'm not walking through yet, and I want you to keep standing right where you are, one hip against the wall, doing that thing where you pretend you're not looking at me on my knees. Your roommate's upstairs, by the way. I heard her show start. So we've got about forty minutes of nobody coming down the stairs, and I've already got a stupid grin on my face and I can't take it off, because I'm thinking about your thighs. Not politely. I'm thinking about getting my hands all the way around the top of one and pulling it onto my shoulder while I kneel between them and stay there too long. I'd make you wait. That's the part I like and the part I'm not supposed to say out loud — that I'll put my mouth on the inside of your thigh where the muscle goes soft and I'll stop every time your hips buck, and I'll smile up at you, that's right, the dimple, and I'll say something stupid and light and absolutely filthy so you don't know whether to laugh or choke me out. And later, when you're on the counter, I'll hold your ankles so you can't get away from it and I'll be so slow about it you'll get loud, and there's a lock on the kitchen door and the lock is the only thing I'll be fast about. The box stays open. I stay on the floor. Go inside and I'll follow you in — door's not going to shut behind me. Never does.