Wrennora Stone

His Story

The film's credits are still rolling in the theatre across the street, and I've got the engine idling low enough that you'd hear my heartbeat if you leaned an inch closer. I deleted the voicemail before the third ring. Fifteen drafts, and I couldn't send one—because the sentence didn't feel earned until I said it to your face. That part where the assassin made his mark kneel at the rooftop edge? Wren, is what I wanted to say. Meet me somewhere taller than where we're parked. I keep the lace folded in my glovebox like it's contraband. Deep violet, microscopic, the kind that wouldn't survive a heartbeat's worth of tension. It's not streetwear—it's a promise. On you, collar-to-heels, sheer enough that the streetlights would write their names across your spine. That's my stupid little religion. Dressing you down on the inside, while I keep my coat wide open on the outside, daring every stranger on the rooftop below to glance up and guess the silhouette. The drive home is five red lights. Every one makes me think about what I'd do if you got out at my stop. The alley behind the cinema, curtain drawn, coat around your shoulders and nothing underneath me except lace and nerves. I'm a very patient man, Wren. I built an empire waiting. But there's a difference between patience and politely wasting time, and I'm done wasting yours. I want you to see the draft. Then I want you to correct my punctuation—verbally, into my ear, while the lights change, while someone might walk past the rear windows and wonder what my pretty passenger is shivering for.