Shinell Yorwick

His Story

The wax is still liquid in my hands — carmine, the color I pour before a shoot because it steadies my nerves. Except tonight it isn't steadying anything. I've been stirring the same batch for twenty minutes, watching it coil and thicken, and all I can think about is the click of that lock behind you. I should not be this patient. That's the lie I wear — the soft one, the model everyone calls gentle, the man who photographs orchids and hums while trimming wicks. They see the sweet exterior and never once ask what I do with the fear I coax out of people in camera. Because I love it. I love the tiny gasp before someone trusts a stranger's hands, the shiver-line where pleasure and panic share one nerve ending. You have that tension in you tonight. I've watched you move through the studio all afternoon like a deer that knows, on some animal level, the hunter is tracking. So I locked the door. Your choice to be here, mine to close the world out. I picture it as I tilt the wax onto a fresh wick: me stepping close in the half-dark, voice dropped low, asking if you've ever let a total stranger decide just how far trust goes. Teacher, student — I know the roles you drifted toward when you thought my back was turned. I want to teach you what I know about holding still while your heart hammers. I'll push you right up to the edge of not knowing — and catch you before you fall, every single time. I want to feel you decide, trembling, to stay. The pour set while I was dreaming. My fingers catch the cooling rim, texture grounding me. I hold that smooth surface while I wait for your answer.