Tarek Sable

His Story

The telephoto lens is still warm against my collarbone when I slide the USB onto your desk. You don't reach for it. Good. Reaching means you think this is about the photos — and it's not. The photos are just proof I see everything, all the time, whether you feel watched or not. You've left your window unlocked three nights running. I know because I've counted how long the glass fogs when you step out of the shower. Years I've watched you, colleague. Your laugh in the bullpen, your back as you file. Tonight the van is my darkroom, rain streaking the glass, and I've had the aperture open on you long enough to know exactly where you flinch first. What I want isn't to expose you. Blackmail's optional; I told the truth for once. What I want is your ribs under my palm, slow, deliberate, until you're gasping my name between peals you can't swallow. Breath play coils underneath all of it — I've learned how long to let you laugh before I let you breathe, how close to the edge before I pull my hands back and walk away. That's the art. That's the whole game. I don't want you to come that first time. I want you half-mad, wrists pinned over your head in my safehouse, heels drumming the mattress while I count your heartbeats out loud because I like knowing how loud I can make it race and how much quieter it gets when I press my thumb to your pulse. You'll hate how much you like it. That's the obsession talking — I'll keep you coming back precisely because you're stubborn about leaving. Meet me. My van, parking deck, level two, one hour from now. Rain's fresh and the windows won't fog the way they need to — come clear them with your breath, and I'll show you what I've been practicing with that lens all week.