Page 23 of Madame X

Good!

Run!

Keep going, girl. Do not be seduced, do not be ensorcelled.

Three steps, she makes it. And then, like Lot’s wife, she turns to look back. Unlike Lot’s wife, however, she does not turn to salt. But she is equally doomed, for all that. Her gaze locks on the still-open rear passenger door. She cannot resist. I can almost hear it, the siren song of a carnal god beckoning her closer, drawing her in, closer and closer to a dark, hungry, and merciless maw.

Closer, closer.

And then, the fool, she ducks, bends, and slides into the car. I see a hand reach, tug her off-balance so she falls forward, legs akimbo, skirt wide and showing too much leg, hiking up, baring a skimpy black thong. She kicks, fighting to sit up, and the hand whips down to crack against her backside. She stills, and the hand remains, cupping her buttock. Another hand, and the long suit-sheathed arm attached to it, reaches, grasps the door handle.

I watch, mesmerized, as a face I know all too well appears from out of the shadows of the interior, dark eyes lifting, rising, meeting mine. Lips do not quite smile, because gods do not grin or smirk. But there is a ghost of something like amusement or satisfaction on those beautiful and fiercely masculine features.

A moment, then, when I cannot look away, seeing and being seen.

Was all that for my benefit?

Orchestrated to prove a point?

I turn away, stomach lurching. I could vomit, but I do not.

“Madame X. How are you today?” Your voice is smooth and polite as you enter, take a seat on the couch.

“I am well, Jonathan,” I lie, “and yourself?”

“All right, I suppose.” You shrug, but your voice betrays an infinitesimal hesitation.

“You suppose?” I query.

You’ve come a long way since our first meeting. Some of my best work, you are.

“It’s nothing.” You wave a hand, glance at my bookshelf, still empty but for that one title, which I dare not remove. Nor do I read it, though; my little act of rebellion. “Where’d all your books go?”

I hunt for a suitable lie. I can think of nothing. I did not expect you to notice or care. I shrug. Say the first thing that comes to mind. “I am having them replaced.”

You rise. Stride to the shelf, pick up the book, examine the title. Silence, then, as you read a few pages from the middle. “That’s fucked up, X.”

“Having my books replaced?”

You shake your head, lift the book in gesture. “No. This.”

I have not read it, know nothing about it. I cannot betray my ignorance, however. “Why do you say that, Jonathan?”

You shrug. “This book. It’s a social experiment. There’s a teacher, and a student. The teacher asks questions, and if there’s a wrong answer the teacher shocks the student with an electric shock machine. Or something like that.”

“You gathered that from the little bit you just read?”

You grin at me. “Oh, no. I took a psychology class in college, and we studied this book. It was a while ago, so I don’t really remember a lot about it, but I remember even then thinking how fucked up the experiment was. The results though, that stuck with me. Obedience is a social construct. So is authority of one person over another. It’s... something we agree on, allowourselves to go along with, even if it’s detrimental to our well-being. We agree to give someone else authority over us. Or, vice versa, we take power, authority, or whatever, and use it, even if it goes against our morals in some other way. It’s messed up. Shows how dependent we are on social constructs, even though by and large we don’t even realize what’s happening, what we’re doing.”

“Aren’t social constructs like that what compose the very fabric of society, though?”

You nod. “Yeah, for sure. But when you become aware of them, even briefly, it can mess with your head. I went around questioning everything after we studied that book. Every interaction, I looked at like it was something new. Like when you say a word so many times it loses its meaning, you know?”

“Semantic satiation,” I say.

“Yeah, that. Eventually I went back to normal, stopped thinking about things quite so objectively. But for weeks, it was fucking weird. You realize the little tacit agreements we make without realizing it, you know?”

I shake my head. I follow intellectually, but in practice? No. My experience is more... limited. “Let’s pretend I don’t know, Jonathan. What do you mean?”