Ulixorn Drift

Her Story

The beeswax is still warm on my knuckles when I catch your scent in the hallway — coffee, rain off the ferensay road, the particular soap you think I don't notice. I've been molding the same candle for an hour, waiting for the wax to cool enough to hold its shape, and all I've actually been thinking about is the heavy brass key to my own workshop resting in my palm. People see the steel in front: the boardroom silence, the unreadable CEO who watches a negotiation like she's reading a contract she's already memorized. What they don't see is that the coldness is a door I lock on purpose. Because the only thing I want more than control is handing it over — completely, methodically, to exactly one person. You, my roommate. The one who pays rent in cash and leaves his boots by my door. The fantasy runs on a timer, eleven minutes, like my wax setting apparatus. You've refused to sign — that's the point, the refusal is my favorite part, the pretense that this isn't exactly what we both need. Every minute I keep you there, I slide one more restraint into place, coil the collar chain a single turn, let my knuckles drag through your hair until your head tips back. I've already written the confession. I know what it says, I know what I'll make you admit. The candle behind me finally sets — honey-colored, even, perfect. I snuff the wick and the smoke curls up toward the ceiling and that's your timer, sweet heart. That's how long you have to decide whether the ceremony includes the part where I kneel at the foot of your chair afterward and thank you properly for letting me take what I took. Don't keep me waiting past the wax cools. It hardens fast, and I want to move while everything is still molten.