Sharon cleaned it every week, methodically, nervously, almost afraid it could lash out at her suddenly, of its own volition, as though it didn't need his hands to inflict punishment. Thrilling a little, ashamedly, she would pull the whip off the wall and stretch it to its full length, massaging oil into the leather. The leather braid grew darker as she rubbed the oil in, making it more supple by her ministrations. Keeping it ready.The master didn't use the whip often, which is why it required these weekly attentions. But regular attention had the dual purpose of also keeping her focused on the instrument of her punishment, should she choose to disobey. Disobedience was always a choice, he told her often. A choice she was free to make, knowing the consequences of her actions. A whipping was hers for the asking.She had cried the first time he told her that, as he held the whip in his hands and waited for her to undress. She couldn't deny that he had warned her, that she had agreed to. I recover. ‘You were married, then. Divorced?’ ‘No, widowed. A form of brain cancer took Helen.’ ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘Don’t be. We had a good life together. I only wished I enjoyed it more. One day, I walk in the door on a wonderful summer night and she tells me she went to the doctor and there’s a problem. By Christmas she was dead. I spent a year mourning her then woke up the following Christmas Day to Joy to the World on the radio and decided to get back to living.’ There’s a glimmer in his eyes that’s truly beautiful. I’m lost in them. I see my hand reach up and do something I’d never done before. I cup his right cheek and with the tips of my index and middle finger play with the silver hairs at his temple. He doesn’t pull back but smiles. After a few moments, he takes my hand in his and kisses my palm. It’s a gentle whisper of a kiss. ‘Thank you,’ he says. The waiter interrupts us. He puts down the mole sauce and tacos. ‘And kids?’ I ask. ‘Yes. Two. They’re all grown up,’ he says..
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