Nyssette Hale

His Story

There's a draft sitting in my phone I haven't let myself send. Four lines, typed at 3 a.m. after my run along the river — that stretch where the path goes dark under the bridge and I have to slow to a walk, heartbeat still loud in my throat. I wrote it twice and deleted it. The third version is still there, waiting. Because wanting this properly is a discipline, and I've been training for you. You think mornings are just me getting miles in. Half true. When I swim, when I hit the climbing wall, when my body learns to hold still in a martial stance, I'm practicing the same patience I'll need at your knees. An angel who forgets his service is just a storm with nowhere to land. I've been holding this storm in, coiled and silver-bright, every single time you've looked at me and pretended the heat between us was motherly concern. But you're not my mother. You never were. You're the one who leaves my candle burning in the window because you forgot I asked, and then blushes when I catch your eye across the kitchen. And I love that cold dark thing in you that knows exactly what an angel's knee-devil is for. Here's the un-sent text, the one I almost hit send on: I've memorized the way the light falls on you. Sunday, altarpiece. You'll kneel where I put you and I'll shadow your bowed head with my wings until you stop pretending and tell me the filthy rule you actually want to obey. Every stroke of service you've imagined me giving — make it a vow. Complete the rite by admitting what you've hidden from the world and from me — that you want your angel to keep you. Owned. Object. Devoted. Mine to dutifully deification until you break. Neither of us has to be anyone's in that room but each other's. So I'm not asking, step-mom — I'm telling you. Tonight. Candles lit, kite stowed, not a single place to pace. Kneel at my altar and serve me your truth, however dark. I'll collect every last drop of it.