I opened the door and stepped back, allowing her to cross the threshold. She smiled when she greeted me, outwardly amicable and carefree. Even though I knew that she was concerned for my wellbeing, she did her best to mask it. I tried to respond in kind, stretching my mouth into what I believed was an expression of joy, but my face was tight and resistant. The depression felt insurmountable. I looked into her eyes, apologetic. 'It's okay,' they told me. She rested her hand on my cheek. I felt the warmth of her touch; it revived me somewhat, restoring feeling to my body in places that were cold and crumbling.
"Go sit down," she said. "We're going to do something different today."
After the first time that I commissioned Cynthia, I knew that I would not stop. In retrospect, I realize that that wasn't the case. It wasn't that I would not stop, but that I could not stop. She was my drug; my addiction. She was necessary. She was resilient, a constant in a world that would otherwise provide me with no respite for my pain. I've often thought about the irony of her name. Though she has always maintained that I call her by her working name, Sin, I've personally never experienced anything purer. This is my focus as I take my seat amidst the clutter and wait for my next instructions.
My home is a mess. It is the tangible representation of my mind. Sin overlooks it. She turns a blind eye to the dishes piled high in the sink. She refuses to acknowledge the unemptied trash, the discarded clothing or the dust. The dust is the worst to me. It builds continuously, daily, regardless of how often I wipe it away. It is trying to bury me, I know, but what it does not realize is that it's too late.
I watch her as she returns to the living room. Her heels are gone now, as is her coat. She is wearing a high-waist teddy, its red lace a stark juxtaposition to the smooth dark hue of her skin. Her very gait is grace personified, but it does little to entice me. I am well aware of her physical beauty, though it is not the reason I call on her exclusively. In fact, we've never made love. I have never asked her to and she has never pressed the matter. Instead, she listens. She allows me to try and expel that which is crushing me. She caresses me and though she's silent, she is attentive. When our time is up, she doesn't rush to collect her belongings. She doesn't hold out her hand for money. She looks at me, and in her eyes, I see everything that I need to go on. She sees my humanity, and I see her recognition. But today, something is different.
She has a bag with her. After dimming the ceiling lights of my suite, she opens it. She removes a candle, which she places on my worn wooden bookshelf. A lighter comes next. Its metallic click cuts through the silence of our space until at last the wick ignites. Now she approaches me. Months ago, the sight of her would have awoken the beast in me, but my inner den is barren. She is unperturbed by my indifference. She slowly straddles me, her hands pressing against my chest. They are equal amounts firm and delicate. The red of her manicured fingernails and lingerie are harsh on my eyes, their vibrancy a shocking contrast to my world of black and grey. I don't fight her; leaning back, I look at her attentively, waiting for instruction. She reaches in the bag once more and removes a blindfold.
"Have you seen
The Leftovers
?" she asks me casually, her lifted bosom inches from my mouth. She wraps the blindfold around my head before lowering it to cover my eyes. Her perfume is subtle but provocative. Its scent engulfs me and suddenly I am nervous.
"No, I can't say that I have," I respond tentatively.
