The guest was a lawyer named Harris who had known Cole since before I was born.
Cole told me at four. Sweater. Collar hidden. Plug still in — he had checked it after the office like a man checking a lock. No underwear. Dress this time, the short one from the store, because jeans after the meeting were a crime scene.
“You sit. You smile. You do not squirm unless you want him to ask if you’re sick. After he leaves I use the chair. Not before.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Harris arrived with wine and a laugh. I shook his hand and felt the glass shift inside me. We sat. The dining chair pressed the flare deeper. I cut chicken and tried to look like a goddaughter on break. Cole carved. He asked about a contract. Harris talked. I said campus was closed and the house was kind. My cunt was a wet open mess a
