“I know you’re there,” I told him to wherever he was standing in the room. Where I always knew he was standing, because the house was heavy, it was too quiet, and I could smell the cloves on his clothes, the fountain on his skin, and the hot on his breath. “And now you know…” I said, “I always close my eyes when I come.” In high school, he’d asked if I closed my eyes in pleasure, and now he had his answer. He didn’t move, and neither did I. I no longer cared. I was tired of wondering what he’d do. Now he was wondering what I could do. This was a game to him, and that was fine. He just wasn’t
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