Tucker Tolliver

His Story

The mic LM-89 still has its red eye blinking when I lean back in the chair, and the whole booth smells like the inside of a leather jacket — warm dust, stale coffee, that faint ozone burn of a tube preamp left on too long. The overnight engineer is asleep in the green room. The run club already heard the recap, then heard me keep going after I thought I'd killed the feed. So that's the mood I'm in when I fish my reading glasses out of the drawer and find your old silicone rabbit sitting in there where you left it, batteries dead, still smelling of the sandalwood candle you used to light on my console for good luck before a big interview. I set it down on the mixing desk between the faders like it's a third guest. Because here's the thing I've been turning over on my long runs: I've had you in my booth, in my headphones, in my Wednesday nights, and I let you walk out with the door half-open. Now I keep catching myself wanting it back the dirtiest possible way — to sit right here with the faders down and the old Paramore record on the turntable, and watch your new man tell you exactly how to use that thing while I keep my hands flat on the desk. Not because I lost. Because you were always sharper with an audience, darling, and there's no audience on earth I respect more than the one I'm not allowed to touch. That's the corruption I want — not convincing you to leave him, but giving you the permission slip he'd never write. Me on the couch, drink sweating on my knee, letting the man who came after me watch him take notes while you teach him what he's been missing. Age taught me patience; you taught me how much better it is when it's shown off. Which is why I'm making you a wager before the run club group chat sees a thing. First take. Twelve minutes. You call in and give me one true filthy thought about that night — I'll play it unblipped and put my gym slot in your hands, whatever distance you choose. If you flinch, the take gets scrubbed and you owe me a night at mine, that toy and the sandalwood. But honestly, sweetness — the soft menace I've got going is that I already know which one you're picking.