Seventy-Two Hours – Part 1: The Protocol

The protocol was four pages long, typed, stapled and signed, and it lay on the kitchen island under a mug of cold coffee.

Marcus read it again, though he knew it by heart. Weekend Protocol, Friday 7 p.m. to Monday 7 a.m. Under it, in numbered clauses, the rules of seventy-two hours: how he would address her, what he would wear, when he would eat, what tasks he would carry out each morning and evening. A list of things he would never be asked to do. A list of things she would never do. And on the last page, in bold, the exits.

He was forty-five, a cardiac nurse, who spent his working life taking responsibility for other people's hearts and who had told her, on a cold night in February, that more than anything he wished to be relieved of all decisions for one whole weekend.

Honoria was fifty, a magistrate, composed, silver-haired and exacting, who loved him enormously and was determined to do it properly. She had spent a month researching. She had talked to friends in the community. She had asked him fifty questions and written down every answer.

"The exits," she said.

"At any hour, I can say Daylight. The protocol ends at once. No penalty, no recrimination."

"And?"

"I can request a pause at any time, and we sit and talk."

"And?"

"Every day at noon and at nine in the evening you will ask me how I am, and I will tell you the truth."

"Good." She slid her glasses down her nose. "And what am I forbidden?"

"To leave me with no way to end it. To ask me for anything that was not agreed. To punish anything that is not a breach."

"Exactly." She placed her signature at the bottom of the fourth page, and handed him the pen. "Then, if you are certain, you will sign."

He signed. His hand was steady. She looked at the signature for a long moment.

"Welcome to the weekend," said Honoria. "It is six fifty-eight. You have two minutes to say goodbye to your autonomy."

"I am ready, Mistress."

"Not yet." She smiled. "At seven."

The clock on the oven ticked over. She pointed at the kitchen floor in front of her.

"Kneel."

He knelt on the cool tiles, and the weekend began.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Monday Morning.