Tight Rope — Jack Savoretti

Somewhere below the bedroom window, Logan's landlord teetered through the grey slop behind the alley dumpster and screamed at a stray cat. If it weren't for the volatile storm crackling through the thick city air, we'd be hearing target practice.

"Can't sleep?" came Logan's voice one pillow over.

"Nah," I said, turning from the guttural cries. "He's loud tonight."

I'd rarely had a good night's sleep in this bed. No matter my argument, campus proximity and an extra fifteen minutes of sleep were more worthwhile to Logan than peace of mind.

Charles and Logan lived on the fifth floor of a dumpy brick apartment off Commonwealth. Their landlord, Edward "the Texan Tiger" Wahler, had a habit of leaving the building's main door unlocked. Break-ins were rare, however, as the overweight former wrestler was terrifying sober and monstrous drunk. He occupied the entire first floor, prowled those rooms nightly, and on the rare evenings I'd chance encounter him, was usually in guns blazing pursuit of some fleet-footed mongrel. Once, he'd followed me wordless all the way to Logan's door, watching me through puffy yellow eyes as I knocked.

"Got real nice calves, hun," he'd grunted. "Powerful little pistons pumping that ass up the stairs."

Oblivious to tonight's hunt, my boyfriend rolled into the low point of the mattress and nestled his chin against my neck.

"Hey, Al," he whispered in the thin tone sleep. "You know I love you, right?" 

In the red light of his alarm clock, I twisted around to regard him. "Hate to break it to you, but I am tucked in and toasty. All the love in the world won't get me out from under this blanket to put away your leftovers."

"No," he yawned. "Just wanted to say it, make sure you knew."

"'Course I know," I said, propping myself onto my elbows. "Why are you being so weird tonight?"

"I'm not being weird."  Confusion pushed his voice to an alert pitch. "Am I?"

"You've been quiet since dinner, didn't even crack a joke at the art expo tonight. We walked through a hall of shitty paintings, Logan. Literal shit. Your face was as blank as that time you sat in on my presentation about neural circuit dysfunction in mice."

"Sorry," he said. "I've been thinking about this afternoon. Haven't seen you that jumpy in a while."

I kissed the corner of his mouth, felt guilt wriggle in my stomach. "About that."

"Some days are tougher than others, I get it."

The dumpster lid banged.

"I'm gonna miss this place," Logan continued, moving back to his pillow. "You and your high standards of living."

"A room that doesn't stink like cat pee isn't asking for much." 

"Until the rent bill arrives," he said, and I could almost hear him, somewhere down in that rich timbre, rallying his jovial self. 

My heartbeat quickened to the thrum of rain gusting against the hazy window. 

I wasn't content to live my life simply weathering the storm.

I wanted to own it.

"Logan," I said with such sudden temerity the man sat up at once, muscles taut in the ruddy glow.

I eased against the headboard, took his hand in mine. For a moment I held it there, watching his eyes, running my fingers over his scabbed knuckles, and then, with a breath that seemed to catch in his chest, too, set his hand on my hip, felt his fingers flex against the cotton shorts, flex, then lift away. I put them back more firmly. "I want you to touch me. More than you have, in ways that you haven't. I know saying it like this doesn't sound—"

His mouth found mine. "You are wildly underestimating what I find hot."

"I don't want everything tonight," I continued, grinning. "After all, sex is a game of inches."

On that rainy night, in the dark predawn of a hurricane, the laughter that followed trickled through the cold beach sand in my heart.

Sometime later his mouth had moved off mine, and down my throat, and on to join a hand  cupping my breast. And he kissed me through the thin t-shirt, and from that firm point lightning shot through my core and I was afraid.

Today and years past flashed together: dank mold flowered along rusty nails and cracked baseboards, the bruising squeeze on my throat, glow-in-the-dark stars around the posters over Logan's head, the flick of his tongue on my flesh.

I was scared there, but I was still here. I was here, I told myself, combing shaking fingers through Logan's hair, murmuring assurances when his blue eyes would ask a question of mine. Not there. Here. Safe. I was taking my body back from a man that never should have had it.