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When I roll over, Emeric is staring at me with an expression best summarized as haunted. Bizarrely, he seems to have slept under his coat, a towel, and several unbuttoned shirts. “You,� he says blearily, “are an unparalleled devil from hell in your sleep.� “What?� Emeric rubs his eyes. “You stole all the blankets. And then you rolled up in them, like a, a crêpe, so they were stuck on your side. And then, when I tried to take one off the top, you turned over, looked me straight in the eye, and said—and I quote—‘I’ll kill you.’� “I never.� “You followed it up with ‘It’ll look like an accident.’�
For most of my life, I’ve held to a theory I call the trinity of want. It states that people are desired for three reasons: power, pleasure, or profit. If you provide three of those, others serve you. Provide two, they see you. One, they use you.
“I can be upset and still think you deserve nice things.�
I think I understand, now, why they say you fall in love, because I don’t think I could climb out of this feeling even if I wanted to. What a beautiful trap I’ve built for myself. What a horror, what a delight, to find I’ve been caught.
That night, all I remember is buying rounds at the Green Sleeve, then I woke up in jail. I thought it was jail. There were shackles.� He considers. “And whips. Maybe � sexy jail.�
