Her Signature – Part 2: Clause Seven

They agreed on a Thursday, which Anaïs said was the most sensible day for anything important. The apartment was on the top floor of an old building in the Eaux-Vives, with tall windows overlooking the lake and a narrow balcony where the wind came off the water.

Rémy arrived at seven exactly. He stood in the doorway with his coat still on, his contract folded in his pocket, and waited.

"Come in," said Anaïs. "Hang your coat. Then tell me where you are."

He did as she asked, and she watched him closely as he crossed the room. He was nervous, but not afraid. Good.

"Nervous," he said. "Mostly green."

"Mostly green is enough to begin," said Anaïs. "Sit on the sofa. Hands on your knees. We're going to go through the clauses once more before anything else happens."

He sat. She sat opposite him, close enough to see the pulse in his throat.

She read the clauses aloud, one by one, and at each one she paused and asked him a question. Did he understand? Did he still agree? Did he want to change anything?

At clause seven, he hesitated.

"Speak," said Anaïs.

"I'd like to be blindfolded," he said, very low. "But only for a short time. And only with your hand on my wrist, so I know where you are."

"Yes," said Anaïs. "That's a reasonable request. I'll take it."

She rose, took a soft grey scarf from the table and came to stand in front of him. "May I?"

"Yes."

She tied it gently over his eyes, checking the knot twice, checking his breathing. Then she placed her hand on his wrist, warm and steady.

"Green?" she asked.

"Green."

"Then listen," said Anaïs, and her voice was calm and clear. "You will stay exactly where you are. You will tell me every time something changes. And you will not be ashamed of anything you feel."

"Yes," breathed Rémy.

She took her time. She told him what she would do before she did it: the press of her fingers against his shoulder, the slow brush of her palm along his arm, the pause that made him lean towards her without meaning to. At every moment she asked, quietly, Yellow? or Green?, and every time he answered clearly.

When he faltered, when his breath came fast and his hands clenched on his knees, she said, "Slow down," and everything stopped at once. She waited, hand still on his wrist, until his breathing steadied.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You did well," said Anaïs. "You told me the truth. That's all I asked."

Later, when the scarf was off and the lamplight was soft across the room, Rémy sat beside her on the sofa, his head resting on her shoulder.

"Was it what you wanted?" she asked.

"Better," he said. "You checked on me every time."

"That's the clause I wrote myself," said Anaïs, and felt him smile against her neck.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "And I'll tell you if I want you to stop."

He kissed her, slowly, with the lake glimmering outside and the city quiet beneath them, and she let herself enjoy it, as he had asked her to. For the first time in two years she did not read the terms in her head before she answered.