Just One Night, Part 2: Exposed by Kyra Davis

I send this last message, knowing exactly what images are playing through Dave’s head. He sees me walking into a restaurant in front of all his friends. He sees Robert Dade by my side, a man stronger, more successful, better looking, a man who surpasses him in every way that matters. He sees himself as the cuckold as we sit down across from him, Robert’s hand on the leg of the woman whom Dave once boasted to have as his own.
    In this vision he is the one cloaked in humiliation.
    The Balance of Threat. It’s a theory of a highly esteemed Harvard professor. The idea is so simple, it’s beautiful. Independent nations’ behavior will be determined by the perceived threat of other nations. Where people miss the genius is that they focus on the wrong word, threat . But threats are finite. They can easily fall apart when a bluff is called. The word that holds the power is perceived . Perception is everything. I have no interest in threatening Dave the way he has so openly threatened me. I want my threats to be unstated but intrinsic in my messaging. I never said it would be Robert driving me to the club. I never said I would try to show him up to his friends. I want to let his imagination do my work for me because the demons within will always have more influence than the demons without.
    Finally he responds with a text that reeks of fear and frustration:
    I don’t want to meet by the club.
    I take a deep breath. This is where I turn fear into panic.
    I am going to be at the club tomorrow at 5:45 pm. If I don’t see you, I will ask your friends as they arrive where I can find you. I’m sure if I explain the situation, they’ll help me. As you said, we need to talk.
    As I read his response I imagine how it would look if it were written by hand. The letters would be shaky and uneven; his sweat would stain the paper. His text says:
    I’ll meet you inside the restaurant. I’ll find a table in the back. Please, let’s make this private. This is about the two of us, just us.
    I don’t respond to this last message. If I did, I would have to explain his error. This isn’t about the two of us at all. It’s about something bigger. It’s about concepts and perceptions, power and grief. It’s about the line between fair retaliation and offensive vindictiveness. It’s about winning and losing.
    It’s about war.
    I smile to myself, flip off the lights. A small nightlight illuminates things enough for me to find my way to the door.
    And when I open it, he’s standing there before me. The dark silhouette of Robert, naked and strong, his form vaguely outlined by the weak light. He looks down at my hand.
    “A little late to make calls, isn’t it?”
    “I was just checking my e-mail,” I reply.
    “My seductive little liar,” he says softly.
    I open my mouth to defend myself but stop. “Must we tell each other all our secrets?”
    “No, I enjoy a little intrigue.” He steps into the bathroom, puts a hand on either side of my face, holding me still. “I don’t insist on knowing everything.”
    “So nice of you not to insist,” I say, the note of teasing light, mingled with a strong dose of anticipation. I close my eyes and feel his hand move into my hair.
    “You laugh but there are things that I do insist on.” I open my eyes again. It’s still so dark. His details are lost, making him a man of mystery. I lift my hand, let my fingers outline his features.
    “I insist that you stay safe,” he says. He drops his hands to my thighs and then up to the curve of my bum. “I insist that those who would hurt you be dissuaded.” His hands keep moving up, to my waist. With a sudden movement he lifts me up and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist. I can see his hazel eyes twinkling in the shadowy light.
    “I have a plan,” I say. “No one will hurt me. Your lover is a warrior.”
    “Are you now?” he asks. “Perhaps my warrior will join me in the shower.”
    He lowers me onto the counter, unbuttons the shirt