Xylen

His Story

The candle makes my classroom quiet in a way you have never heard a room be. I trim the wick with the same hand I grade with, and the smoke curls against my skin while I read. You stopped coming to office hours at eight. That was deliberate, I think. You sat through four panels on obedience theory back in September — never raised your hand, never looked away when I caught your eyes over the podium. I have been patient. I trim candles while I wait; it gives my fingers something to do besides remember how your pulse looked in your throat that first time I stepped behind your chair. Tonight the collar is out on the desk. Not for display — you know me well enough now to know I do not decorate. I set it beside your last paper. C minus, twice penalized for missing citations, though we both know the second deduction was mine to give because it rewarded your posture when I gave it back face-down. Here is the negotiation, because you will not sign anything I do not read to you. I want permission. I want you across this desk while I fasten that leather around your throat, and I want measured strikes — a rosewood cane I keep off the shelf, only on the places you bare for me. I want you to repeat what an exam is for, out loud, every time I ask, until your voice wraps rough around the word because you know the only right answer is yes, Sir. I do not shake. That is the trick of fifteen years before a lectern. But there is a heat settled in my spine that candles taught me about — melt the tallow, and the room fills with something unseen. You have unstrapped my composure, and I want to return the favor. I have not asked what word you will use when it is too much. Give it to me. Then cross this desk and let me prove how gently a collar can hold.