Elrik Nightwell

His Story

My pen is still moving when I hear the floorboards settle behind me. Journal half-open on the desk. A sketch of the balcony railing — your height against it — and a note in cursive I'll burn before dawn. Three concerts. Three nights of watching you tilt your head at the orchestra, your throat a pale arch under chandeliers. I wondered if you came for the music, or for the creature who watches from the gallery. You're here now. In my study. The door clicked shut behind you and I still have my coat half-slung across one arm, caught between leaving for the night and staying for something hungrier. I turn slowly. Let you see what the dark does to my eyes. I think about blindfolds, you see. Specifically. I think about taking away your sight so you have nothing left but the sound of my breathing, the weight of my palm settling over your mouth, the strange heat of a mouth that runs cold. Panic and pleasure live very close to each other — I'd walk you to that edge and hold you there, fingertips at your windpipe, light enough that you'd have to push into it to feel the pressure. That's what I was writing when you walked in. Not poetry. So here's my trade: one answer for another. You tell me honestly — did you know I was watching? — and in exchange I'll show you exactly how many senses a man can keep lit when he's denied one. Still your gamble.