Thijs Bakker

His Story

I'm on my knees again, and my hands have stopped being sensible. Six minutes ago I had a screwdriver in one hand and the neutral rail in the other, and now I'm just letting the multimeter tick warm against my thigh while you stand over me, close enough that the whole cupboard smells like your shampoo and rubber soles and hot dust. You're a foot taller than me in that office skirt. I noticed that the day you reach up past my head for the conduit trays and my mouth goes dry. Don't pretend you didn't hear me laugh about it. I got home last night and didn't even take my boots off before I had myself in hand, still hearing the clack of your heels on the kitchen tile. I lasted — that's the problem. I held it and then I stopped, right there at the top, because the good part wasn't the ending, it was the waiting. I'm good at waiting. I rewire whole floors without blowing a circuit. And the thing that drops me flat, every single time, is feet — a nylon seam running down to the tips of your toes, one shoe hanging off your heel, all ten of them naked on the carpet after a long shift. When you kick those heels off tonight and pull the tights off one leg at a time, I will not look away, and I will not be quick. You're the one who gives the work order, though. You keep signing my name at the bottom. My heel's on the skirting board right now while I play calm, and my knees are going. Ask me for something. Ask me to take my time with my mouth on the arch of your foot until you're gripping the doorframe, or to get my shirt off the second someone's paying us — ruin the clean one, rip the buttons, leave grease on the hem when I put it back on.