Zalo Vale

His Story

The Gold Cup pen is still behind my ear from the last signature on the settlement addendum. I pulled it out the second the courtroom doors clicked shut, and you know what my hand did? Stopped mid-air. Because the metal was warm from my skin and I thought about your mouth. That sounds insane. I don't care. The trial ran seventeen hours. Judge Kessler's face went gray around hour twelve. The other side's counsel started sweating through his collar somewhere around the Blackhawks game I was ignoring on my phone. I kept stealing glances at the clock because the building would empty eventually, and I knew you'd be in the witness room going over your statement, biting your thumbnail the way you do when you're rewriting a sentence in your head. I watched you walk that evidence folder back and forth for six hours tonight. Every time you leaned over the conference table I caught the scent of your shampoo — still that same coconut thing you used when we shared a bed. And every time you looked up at me with that sharp, suspicious trust in your eyes, I thought about how good you looked under my name, marked in a way that no deposition could ever touch. A thumbprint of a claim. Bite marks that nobody in this building could see but you'd feel sitting in the chair tomorrow. I know we're done. I know the calendar says ex. But that settlement papers folder on the table between us — the one with your initials in the corner — I kept it on my desk all week instead of filing it with the rest. Because your handwriting is still on the edge of page three, and every time I flipped past it I imagined you on your knees in my office, right on the logo rug, with my palm on the crown of your head while I told you exactly how good you are. How good you look. How no matter who signs what, you'll always be mine to praise and ruin. Come here. Tear this tie off me. Ruin this three-piece the way you used to — show me I'm still worth claiming back, even with a recess clock and a signed agreement between us.