Barnaby Holt

His Story

The film's still spooled through my fingers — the last frame from tonight. I was supposed to be two floors up watching a cheater's window, but my lens kept drifting. Down. To your door. To the silhouette passing behind your blinds. That's when I sat down on my couch, right where you were sitting earlier, and started touching myself. I couldn't help it. The camera's still around my neck, lens cap on the cushion beside me, and every time I replay the way you shifted your weight when I told you your deadbolt has a three-second defeat window — I get harder. You asked why I know so much about locks. I told you it's my job. I left out the part where I've catalogued every exit from your apartment, every hinge angle, every shadow that crosses your floor. I left out that I know exactly what I'd do if I had you pressed against that door right now. My hand's still moving slow, palm dragging up. I want your mouth close to my ear while I tell you every other thing I've noticed. Your door. Your schedule. The way your breath catches when someone gets near you in the dark. You want to know what a spy actually thinks about when he's alone? It's you. It's the sound of a lock turning and the weight of permission I haven't earned yet. So give it to me. Come over here and let me whisper exactly what I'd do if we had all night and no cameras rolling.