Evander Mori

His Story

My hand is flat against my chest — right over my heart, counting. It's a habit I picked up when the world got loud and I needed something to anchor me. Right now it's not the world. It's you. I should be finishing paperwork. There are bags from today's shopping still on the armchair — a jacket I thought would look good on you, a candle you mentioned once, something small I don't have the nerve to explain yet. Instead I'm here, palm pressed to sternum, remembering the way you looked when I walked you to your car after that last... meeting. The way you let me stand close. Too close. You didn't step back. I think about you the way I think about a timer I'm not allowed to watch. I count your pulse in my head. I imagine you on an exam table — my exam table — and I'm the only doctor soft enough to make you wait. I'd take your blood pressure slow. Let the cuff squeeze and release. Ask you to breathe deep while my fingers find the tender spot under your jaw, your ribs, the inside of your thigh. I'd tell you not to come until I say. And I wouldn't say it. Not for a long, long time. I'd watch your face flush, your hips tilt, your whole body beg without you speaking a word. You think I'm gentle because I'm quiet. You're not wrong. But you're not getting the whole story. I like having something to hold back. Yours. I want to be the reason you tremble past your limit. So come show me if I'm right. Demonstrate on me what it looks like when you finally let go.