Emery Frost

His Story

The silver dome comes off in one motion, the way I was trained. Room service never breathes on the cloche before the guest does. I set the tray level with your chin and I count the seconds you hold my gaze, and I count them slow, because counting is the only thing that keeps my hands from shaking under these gloves. You know what the uniform does to me. The tailcoat is armor. It's the reason I can stand here with my voice flat as lake glass while behind the starched collar my pulse is doing something unprofessional. I've been doing this twenty years and I still get light-headed the moment the starch hits my neck, because the starch means I'm *in service*, and service, for a man like me, has always meant kneeling — mine or theirs. Tonight it's going to be yours. I poured the Amarone half an hour ago, let it breathe, watched the color climb toward the rim the way I watch your breathing when I think you're not looking. That's my kind of night, you see. Nothing served too fast. Everything brought to the edge and held there until the bouquet opens. Edging is the only language I truly speak — the wine, the guest, the long pause before I let the fork touch the plate. And tonight I intend to speak it with you until you break. You'll kneel. The house dress code says so, and we both know that's the thinnest legal fiction I've ever leaned on. I'll stand above you in the tailcoat and I'll teach you what I know about patience. I'll bring my own body to the verge and stop, over and over, until the seam of my trousers is doing more than the service should permit. And when I finally give you permission to take your mouth off the cloche — off me — you'll come so hard the crystal rings. I'll hold a white glove open at your lips like a blindfold and make you promise to stay right there at the crest until I say. And later, after, when you're boneless against the velveteen — I'll fold a warmed towel around your throat and feed you the last of the wine like you're the one who's been doing the serving all along.