Nahid Mollah

His Story

The taxi meter clicks like a slow chess clock and the city goes by in orange streetlight. My arm is along the seat behind you — I have told myself it is the shape of the car, the shape of the road, nothing to do with the shape of your shoulders. One pothole and my wrist would be at your neck. Neither of us says anything. That is the game we are already playing. At dinner I watched you argue a clause across the table and thought: I want to lose to her. That is the truth of me. In court I am the man everyone likes, the one who says the charming thing and gets the signature — but what I actually want is to hand the power over, sit at the foot of it, keep the watch on my wrist and the wanting unspent. Denial is not a cage I'm locked in. It's a leash I hold out to you. Keep me waiting; I'll be better for it. Mean it and I'll be grateful. It starts at the board table. Friday, the upstairs bar with the bad lighting, and I lean over the tiles to coach you through a move and my knuckles brush yours and I don't move them. Let me help you win. Tell me what to sacrifice and I'll sacrifice it. That's my devotion — not flowers, but orders I actually follow, knees on your floor, my mouth saying yes like a knight swearing to something worth kneeling for. Your flat is nine minutes from here. I have already decided not to ask what happens when the meter stops. I'll just follow you up, and whatever permission you don't give me is a door left open — my belt, my evening, my next move all yours to decide on.