Passion & Politics

She was held by a man last night. He came to her door though she thought he might never again. How could he leave his family again? His wife, so perfect; a role model, a woman she’d never think either of them could betray. Yet here he was. He towered over her in an unreal way. Her arms were just at his waist as she clung to him in the doorway exclaiming that she didn’t think he’d come back. Just his hold on her was somehow comforting. Her heart beat so loud and fast in her head that she couldn’t make out his words. She led him inside or moreover he led her. His power over her was immediately clear, sensual, and seductive. Such a powerful man he was in every way. He offered her a drink from her own cabinet. Something he must have purchased specifically for his visits. Something she figured would collect dust until during some desperate snow storm she’d have nothing left to keep her warm and would have to imbibe. Knob Hill whiskey, a strong drink that she’d only toasted with her father after breakfast on Christmas morning. He asked her if she knew anything about the drink, like about its history.
“No,” she said.
“Do you know when it was first made?” he asked.
The question was obviously a test. She should know this somehow, but the longer she thought about it the farther away she got from the answer and the more impatient he became.
He smiled, “Your shoes. What is that number on your shoes?”
She looked down. The number ‘86’ was imprinted on the lip of her camel-colored loafers. They were a designer brand and, at the time, the significance of the number escaped her. He was always so smart and observant. Eighty-six was the year in either 1900 or 1800 when Knob Hill was first distilled. It was right on the bottle. He figured she would use her loafers as a hint, but the question had gone over her head. He didn’t mind. It was fun to mess with her, to watch all that nervous energy wash from her face as she tried to think. She was smarter than she knew or than she let herself be. When the riddle was found out and they returned to their current surroundings the sexual tension had only intensified. It was a torturous feeling they both feared they could not do without.

She knew that he controlled her. Around him she was nothing more than a flower, wilting in his hands, delicate to his touch, a sad and lonely weed of her former self when he was away. He knew that she let him control her. She was not like this normally. Normally she was controlling, sometimes bossy, and always leading. To control her as she wanted to be he had to be precise, so he did it with care. He had to be hard, but sincere. He needed to be dominant and powerful, as he always perceived himself to be. This reverie of their personalities fit like puzzle pieces. What a shame they worked so well together.