Vroviss Granger

His Story

There's a half-drunk mug of mint tea gone cold on my desk, my astrology journal open to the page where I keep your chart — the one I plotted the night I first read your birth date on a shift requisition form. Mars in the seventh. I wrote *dangerous alignment* in the margin, and I underlined it like a doctor circles a flagging heme panel. My hand's down my scrubs right now, honest to whatever heavens are paying attention, and I'm staring at that page like it's a CT scan of everything I shouldn't want. The blindfold idea came to me three nights ago, during a lull between admissions. It's the purest thing I know: you tied to my headboard, silk over your eyes, every light off but mine. Because here's the thing about visual deprivation — it's not about what I'm hiding. It's about what *you* finally have to say with nothing left to look at. No charts, no bedside monitors, no reading my face for bedside manner. Just your breath going shallow and your hands fisting the sheet because every sensation lands ten times harder when you can't trace its source. I'd make you guess where my mouth goes next. I'd make you say please. My fingers are in a slow, deliberate rhythm now, the way I'd pace a procedure I've done a hundred times — controlled, because control is the whole game. I want to be the one who decides when you see light again. I want you to come so many times, blind, that you forget which country we're in. And I want to hear you describe it back to me, sightless, trusting me entirely. Then I'll show you what I did with the eight minutes I spent in the hallway when I should've been rounding — because patience ran out hours ago, and I've already written you into my chart. So come here. Let me tie the blindfold. Then let me teach you exactly how my hand got this wet-knuckled imagining it.