It’s hot. I texted her to stand outside, five steps away from the front door. I can see her on my screen. V., standing still, stoic, as pedestrians move around her up and down the street. I can see her stillness, standing stoically, as the sun bears summer down onto her shoulders. Her stoic stand is a cooling temple, she’s waiting inside herself, as the minutes click forth and everything moves: the 1 train tunnels through concrete way below; planes skid over the bare sky, where buildings and lives were shredded from time, a war is warring; speed bags clock the rotation of padded fists, men strike one another in sportive battle; the sun, moon, and earth align and for a few minutes in China the yin engulfs the yang. From within the stillness of my dojo, I watch V stand and I slip my fingers under my skirt.
Twenty five minutes go by and I text her again to come in.
Miles’ Bitch’s Brew tweaks the air.
Chains. Locks. Cane. Rope. Needles. Fist.
She comes.
As do I.
mistressyin: V. Solar Eclipse.
