Zoltan Vasile

His Story

I took everything off the table tonight. Chairs, glasses, my men — cleared that back room until it was just me, the bottle of '82 Bordeaux I'd been saving, and you on the other side of the debt papers. You thought we were settling a number. We were. Your number. What everyone else wants from you — what they'd take, what they'd break you for — I own that now. I bought it with a promise no one else in this city can keep. But possession doesn't mean consumption. Not yet. You want to know what I was doing after you left? I poured the wine. Swirled it. Let it breathe the way I'm letting you breathe. And I sat in that empty room with my hand wrapped around the glass — the third time since we started this* — and I told myself no. Not yet. Not until you come back willing. Not until you sit in my lap in that same chair, without the debt papers between us, and I get to taste how patient you've been for me. That's the game. I keep you right on the edge of what I could take, and you keep showing up to find out how long I can make it last. Come find the cellar. I'll be waiting with another bottle and both hands free. *The third time since we started this — my hand around a glass, breathing through the want, choosing control over taking.