Page 80 of Proof By Contradiction

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‘OK.’

He sets it on the bed. Sits beside it. Pats the sheet next to him.

‘Come here.’

I sit.

He looks at me with the look I remember from first office hours. Quiet, attentive. The one that asks a question without making it a question.

‘Take your shirt off.’

I take it off.

He doesn’t undress.

‘I want to tie your wrists,’ he says. ‘In front of you first. Loose cuffs, not tight, not weight-bearing. Enough that you feel them. Not enough that you have to fight them.’

My mouth has gone dry.

‘Right.’

‘If you say stop, I stop. If you say off, it comes off. Immediately.’

‘Right.’

He picks up the rope.

‘Tell me now if anything in that sentence wants stopping.’

‘Carry on.’

He works fast, not hurried. His hands have the muscle memory of an act he is not performing for the first time. The cotton against the inside of my wrist is warmer than I expect. Not cold from a drawer. Not new.

He fits the first cuff around my right wrist, then the left, leaving a short length between them. Close enough that I know exactly where my hands are. Loose enough that I can still turn them.

‘Right wrist?’

‘Fine.’

‘Left?’

‘Fine.’

‘Show me your hands.’

I lift them. Joined, but not trapped. Six inches between the wrists, maybe less. He turns each hand, checks the rope sits flat, no twist, no bite.

‘Move your fingers.’

I open and close my fists.

‘Again.’

I do.

‘Good. Lie back.’

I lie back.

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