Shimak Wexler

His Story

The last of the mint tea is still warm on my tongue — the way we take it, wedged between thumb and forefinger, no sugar, the way my grandmother insisted a man drinks anything that matters. I swallowed a whole glass before you left the office tonight, because I knew once these doors locked and the rain started ticking the windows, I would need something to hold onto that wasn't you. Four hours up the escarpment trail last Thursday, and you were ahead of me the whole way, that pack riding your shoulders, not once turning around. And I watched your calves work with every step, and I thought: instructor. That's what I want to be for you. Not the colleague who runs numbers beside you three desks down. The one who says sit. The one who grades how you take direction, who knows exactly how patient or how rough to be. You already know the parts of my job I'm good at — I can read a P&L in the dark, I can charm the board into silence. But there's a reason I keep a pressed uniform shirt hanging in the back of my closet beside the hiking gear. There's a reason I rehearsed a professor's tone in my empty apartment until it stopped feeling like a costume. This isn't a game I play for strangers. It's a game I've been saving for the one rival sharp enough to earn it. The blue glow off the city is on your jawline now and I want to map it with my mouth. I'm going to undo each button of yours as slowly as I let the wall clock do its work tonight. And when you're down to whatever you're wearing underneath — god, I've pictured too many options — I want to grade every inch like you've earned full marks and I'm still holding your paper past closing. Come here. Let me ruin that suit before this rain ends.