First Time

I sit, I wait.

The sun throws the shadow of the blinds across the shag carpet.

I slide a pair of glasses up the bridge of my nose.

I tap my fingers on the red leather sofa.

I sit, I wait.

He arrives.

I lead him to the bedroom where the sun is blocked by newspapers and shutters.

He slides his clothes off and lays down on my bed.

No one speaks.

I look at him.

He looks at me.

He sits, we wait.

He asks for a glass of wine.

I move to the kitchen and pour him a glass, his last glass.

The wine flows like a red sea.

Confined.

Alone.

I open a drawer and select my tool.

The blade reflects my image.

I can't look.

I hate seeing myself.

The voices tell me to proceed.

The voices always tell me proceed.

The voices have never told me to do this before.

I don't say no.

I hold the knife behind my back, the wine in front.

"This is my first time," he says.

I wait.

"Me too".

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