Page 66 of Suite 7

I swallow. “Yes, Sir.”

Then he’s gone.

By the time I find a space on the street, my hands are trembling on the steering wheel.

I sit there.

Three days. Three days of doing exactly what he told me to.

I unlock the front door. Kick off my shoes. The apartment is quiet and warm and I’m still vibrating from the parking lot, from the way he looked at me, from standing close enough to touch him and not touching him.

Eat something and take care of yourself.

His words. His instruction. I turn them over in my mind the way I’d turn over a brief with a weak argument, looking for the angle that works.

Take care of yourself.

That’s open to interpretation, isn’t it. That’s not a specific directive. That’s a general principle of self-maintenance, which could reasonably encompass — he didn’t say don’t take care of yourself. He said take care of yourself. And there are many ways a person might do that. Many legitimate, self-respecting, arguably Kane-sanctioned ways.

I eat pasta standing at the counter, because I’m covering my bases.

Take care of yourself.

I carry the words into the bathroom with me. Set them on the counter next to my phone while the shower heats up. Steam fills the space, fogging the mirror.

Take care of yourself.

I think about this while I undress.

He said don’t touch yourself. Those were the specific words. Don’t touch yourself, don’t chase it. And now, standing in a parking lot: take care of yourself. Two separate instructions. And instructions, when they conflict, have to be read in sequence. The later instruction qualifies the earlier one, that’s basic contract logic, that’s how language works when you’re being precise about it.

He’s precise about everything.

Take care of yourself is a positive instruction. An active one. It doesn’t say except in the way you most need right now. It doesn’t say but not like that. It says take care. Of yourself. Which means attending to what your body needs. Which means, if your body has been wound tight for three days and every nerve ending is screaming and you can’t think or sleep or function, and someone who is supposed to be looking after your wellbeing has told you to take care of yourself —

That’s not breaking the rule.

That’s following the more recent instruction in good faith.

I step under the water and let the heat work into my shoulders and think about whether I actually believe that.

I almost do.

That’s enough.

My hand moves.

My knees go weak, and I brace against the shower wall, the tiles cold against my palm.

It doesn’t take long. Three days mean I’m already so close. My breathing comes in ragged gasps. The water pounds against my back.

When I come it’s with a strangled gasp I barely manage to muffle.

For about thirty seconds, the tight coil of it eases.

Then the permission slip dissolves.

Not shame. Something that sits lower than shame, that I don’t locate until I’m already on the floor of the shower, knees pulled to my chest, the water cooling against my shoulders, the tile hard and cold underneath me.