Page 44 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“Yes?” I keep my tone neutral.

“Nothing.”

“Do you require something?”

“Nope.”

“Very well.”

“Right.” He nods, uncertain. After a moment, he says, “I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Perhaps.” The single word hangs between us.

He snaps, “Perhaps?”

My smallest smile. “I’ll be quite busy today. Although I could spare some time if you need me.”

His cheeks pink. “Cool. I’ll keep that in mind,” he manages, pressing his legs together for just a few moments, making me hold back a satisfied grin. “Well, I should go now…” He gestures vaguely behind him, then turns and walks with his head high and a defensive posture toward the cottage.

I let him go. Not out of generosity—he would see right through that—but for the sake of the calculus that has begun to reveal itself. Every overture doubles back on me. Each allowance, each freedom, each time I let him think he’s gotten away with something becomes a tithe in my favor. Not yet a debt, not a leash, but an accumulation.

Sometimes I think the only honest way to get someone to reveal their secrets is to trick them into believing they have the upper hand.

I watch until the door swings shut behind him. Only then do I turn to my own errands.

10

Camille

It has been two weeks since Ryan informed me, with an impressive degree of seriousness for a man dripping with arousal, that we could have sex as often as we liked so long as neither of us developed the unfortunate habit of assigning meaning to it.

So far, we have been remarkably dedicated to honoring the first half of that agreement.

The second has proven somewhat more complicated.

Not that Ryan would agree.

According to him, nothing has changed.

We are neighbors who occasionally fuck.

Frequently fuck, if one wishes to be pedantic.

There was the night he appeared at my door shortly before midnight and did not leave until nearly three. The afternoon he came over supposedly to return the shirt he had borrowed, only for us to make considerably worse use of it before he ever managed to hand it back. Last Tuesday, we somehow ended up together three separate times, an excess Ryan blamed entirely on the heat, boredom, and my apparently intolerable habit of walking around my own property without enough clothing.

I informed him that none of those explanations accounted for his participation.

He told me to go fuck myself.

Then assisted.

There have been beds.

Sofas.

My kitchen island once.

And, on one particularly unwise afternoon, the broken stone wall dividing our properties.