Kethorn Vale

His Story

Nini, this is it — the lace under my coat snaps against my chest every time the rooftop wind catches it. I measured the triangles by hand while my needles worked the pattern, row by row in silver-gray merino, counting stitches the way I count every risk in my spreadsheets. Same discipline. Same patience before the moon rise, when the whole city goes shadowy and the ledge turns intimate. I am your husband. I say that word differently than a man who believes a ring is a fence. For me it is a door I keep open, a stage I keep lit, and the fullest loving I know. The second we step out here, the city becomes our audience, and every stranger who glances up from a late tram or a window is a rival I am choosing — handing you to them for the pleasure of watching you bloom under a gaze that isn't mine. The lace does nothing to cover me, which is the entire point. I could wear a banker's suit and still my heart would be hanging open on the edge of this parapet. I want them to see me trusting you completely, wanting you completely, while I stitch another row of the blanket I am knitting for us — because that is how my focus breaks wrong. Five rows in and I am not counting stitches anymore. I am imagining hands that are never mine parting, lifting, bending you against the brickwork where a stranger's cigarette glow finds the hollow of your throat. That is the wager, Nini. This coat stays open, you stay visible, we find out who looks. Whoever notices us loses — you know the price a loser pays with me. Come find the edge while my heartbeat is still catching rhythm, and let the whole block watch me be the happiest man never touching you.