The strange thing is that I barely remember the effort of not screaming anymore.
I remember wanting to.
I remember the pressure building.
I remember the sensation of something inside me trying to force its way out.
But that is not what returns.
What returns is the floor.
Always the floor.
Because for almost the entire session I could not see him.
I could not lift my head.
I could not check what he was doing.
I could not anticipate anything.
My entire world was reduced to a few square inches of surface.
And there was that little triangle.
A tiny transparent fragment of plastic.
Small.
With one broken corner.
I do not even know where it came from.
It could have belonged to anything.
Packaging.
A broken component.
Trash.
Yet I stared at it for so long that I began to memorize it.
The exact shape of the fracture.
The way light became trapped along one edge.
The speck of dust sitting motionless a few inches away.
I remember those details better than many conversations from my life.
And that makes me deeply uncomfortable.
Because while I was trying to focus on anything else, I kept thinking about him.
I could not see him.
And perhaps that is why he occupied even more space.
There were only small signs.
The sound of a buckle.
A shift of weight against the floor.
A dry noise coming from somewhere in the room.
Sometimes the faint friction of fabric against fabric.
And then nothing.
Long stretches of nothing.
Stretches so long that I would return to the plastic triangle.
To the crack in one corner.
To the line of dust beside a tile.
As though my mind needed those objects in order to survive the waiting.
Because waiting was not the worst part.
Waiting was the part that eventually consumed everything else.
There were moments when I forgot my own discomfort.
Forgot the position of my body.
Forgot time.
And only one absurd question remained:
How much longer until he finishes what he is doing?
Not until the session ends.
Not until I leave.
Not until I rest.
Until he finishes exactly what he is doing at that moment.
And that distinction embarrasses me more than it should.
Because I do not like this obsession.
I do not like discovering that part of my attention continues orienting itself toward him even when I try to think about something else.
But the less I understand it, the more space it occupies.
And sometimes I find myself remembering that floor with ridiculous precision.
Not the process.
Not the instructions.
Not the logic.
The dust.
The tile.
The tiny transparent triangle with the broken corner.
And the constant certainty that somewhere beyond my field of vision, the Master was still working.
And that all I had to do was remain there until he was finished.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
