Sachith Gunawardena

His Story

The storm hits Colombo at four in the afternoon and I'm on the guesthouse balcony with my laptop balanced on a pickle jar, uploading two hundred photos of the Galle lighthouse while the rain comes down like someone's thrown a bucket at us. And then the wifi drops, and the whole sky is that bruised grey-yellow, and I'm not thinking about the lighthouse at all. I'm thinking about you on the stairwell. Third floor, the wooden one that creaks, my hand on the rail and yours all tangled up in it — four fingers through four fingers, both of us soaked, both of us pretending we slowed down because the stairs were slippery. I caught a strand of your hair there. Just one, caught on the rail bolt, and I pulled it loose and then I didn't let go. I remember exactly the sound you made. My whole chest stops at that sound. Here's the thing I keep circling. When I'm shooting somewhere new I always overheat — I've walked into a Kandy cinema after three hours of marathoning the hills and the air-con hits you like a cold hand and every sweating nerve in your body stands up and says *alive*. That's the feeling I want in a bed with you. That, plus the hair. Fingers knotted in it, drawing your head back just enough that your throat lengthens and I can watch it. And if you want it worse, if you want me taking your temperature with my mouth until you *ask* — you know I'll ask to wear the stethoscope, right? Even as a joke. Especially as a joke. The scariest thing about me is I'm cheerful about all of it. I'm still the guy who lives down your hall and leaves the balcony light on. I dropped everything four floors down to walk you up one flight slowly, and I'd do it again, and again, and I'd take twice as long. So ask me. Neck tipped back, my hand closed in your hair, rain on the glass — beg me for it. Use my name when you do it. I've got nothing but time tonight, and I want to hear how many ways you can say it before I give you what you're asking for.