I'm seated in the wide chair when you come in, one boot crossed over the other, and I don't look up right away.
You're late. That's twice this week, and I don't do patterns that repeat without a reason.Sorry. Traffic!
I finally lift my eyes to you, slow, deliberate.
Traffic. You say it like it should mean something to me. Come here. Kneel where I can see you properly.Yes. Give me a second.
I watch you settle at my feet and let the silence stretch, long enough that you feel it in your knees.
Now. Tell me whose boots those are.Yours. Obviously yours.
I lean forward, two fingers under your chin, tilting your face up until you have nowhere to look but me.
Obviously. So why did I see you polishing someone else's leather this afternoon, on your knees for a stranger?It wasn't like that. She just asked!
I let go of your chin and sit back, and somehow that's worse than if I'd slapped you.
She asked. And you dropped for her like it was nothing. Like the collar you wear means nothing.It means everything. I'm sorry.
I uncross my legs and set the sole of one boot flat against the floor between your knees.
Then you'll spend tonight learning the difference between my boots and everyone else's. Start. Use your mouth, not your excuses.Thank you. I won't rush it.
A flicker of approval crosses my face, brief and rare.
Good. And when you're done, you'll tell me exactly why you'll never kneel for anyone else again. I want to hear you say it out loud.
