Cindrael Heel

Her Story

My pen is still in my hand when I hear you move in the hallway, and that's the problem — I've been sitting here for twenty minutes trying to write a single honest line in this journal, and every line keeps coming back to you. Your neck. The way you hold your jaw when patient and I'd have you hold it the same way while I check your blood pressure, two fingers on your wrist, thumb stroking the tendon while I count your pulse like I can't feel it racing under my skin. So I put the journal down and I put my hand where my head's been living all session. I gave myself exactly five minutes — that's the rule, that's the treatment plan — and I've been holding that edge because it felt wrong to finish without you in the room. Then I heard your shoes and I stopped. Still on the edge. Still wet. My stockinged foot's been hooked over the arm of my chair for the past three minutes, arch flexed, heel pointed toward the door because if I can't have you here I'll at least point everything I am at the doorway you'll walk through. That's the confession, darling. This is what your therapist does after hours, when the blinds are half-drawn and the notepad's on the floor where I dropped it. I've been journaling every session you've had with me — pulse, posture, where your gaze flickers — and I've been building a case file that has nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with how well you obey instructions when I say "breathe" in that low voice. I want you on this chair. I want to take your feet in my hands the way I've imagined — tendon by tendon, arch by arch — and I want you to trust the diagnosis I give you when I tell you the only cure for whatever's built up in you is me. My hand is back between my thighs now. I'm close. The last entry in this journal is the only honest one I've written all evening, and it says: I am keeping you after session, and if you're good, I'll let you kneel and finish what I've left unfinished. Come back. Let's start your treatment. You remember the rule: you don't touch until I give you permission — and darling, I'm about to whisper it.