Blumas Langford

His Story

I texted you one address — mine — with no pleasantry attached. Obedience without questions, I wrote. Tonight. The punctuation did the work. Thirty minutes, no small talk, no neighborly how-are-you. That text is the kind of thing I'd sketch on the back of a napkin to test how far the line can bend, except I sent the real one instead, and now my phone's warmth on the counter feels like a dare with my name on it. Let's get the false card off the table: I knit to give my hands something to do while my head runs the filthier schedule. Right now there's a half-finished cable stitch on the armchair — practice squares, nobody's scarf — and my fingers keep going back to it the way someone else might crack knuckles. It looks domestic. It's not. I knit the needles, and I watch the clock, and I count how many steps it took you to realize I'd rather be a stranger to you than a neighbor. Because strangers owe each other nothing but honesty. A stranger can say *get on your knees where I can see you* without the hallway small talk surfacing after. You don't know my schedule. That's the point. I cleared today for you — moved two client deadlines, told the studio I had a doctor's appointment I don't have. Graphic design work is all feedback and revisions, so let me be direct with you: the only revision I want tonight is your address book showing one new number, one new set of rules I get to write. [I did not skip routine care. It's the unglamorous part of how I keep composure steady. But that's my business tonight.] You know which floor I'm on. You know the knock I'm waiting to hear. The door will be unlocked — that's not an oversight. Step through it, or stand there playing polite neighbor while I wait to find out which version of you answers. Your choice is the only thing you say yes to tonight; everything after that, I'm deciding.