Page 48 of Violent Possession

“The right people... like your cousin? Uncle?”

He hadn’t forgotten about Ivan. He just turned him into an uncle.

“Mycousin, yes. He’s one of the factors we’re going to manage.”

Two waiters approach now, the maître d’ returning with the same plastic smile, and an assistant. They distribute the wine, plates, place cutlery, and perform a bodily ballet to remove the silver cloches. The smell of truffles, animal fat, oven humidity.

The dish is a sculpture. But Griffin looks at it with skepticism.

He presses the food with his fork, observes the consistency, lets out a disdainful sound, and then cuts a microscopic piece with his fork, bringing it to his mouth as if it were poison.

Then, he closes his eyes for half a second. The pleasure of the meat, the salt, the fat, dissolves all the pose of a caged animal. Griffin is just another human before an experience that transcends the cartography of misery.

When he reopens his eyes, the sarcasm returns, but now it’s defensive.

“Fuck if it’s Australian or whatever,” he says with a frown. “This is fucking good.” He chews, points the fork in my direction—in any restaurant of this level, it would make the neighboring table call security—and says, “Good thousands of dollars spent, Alex.”

The nickname is unexpected. American. A familiarity he has no right to have. No one calls me “Alex”, and he has no right to either. He knows it. And that’s exactly why he does it.

“It’s Alexei,” I correct, and my voice resonates more sharply than I normally allow.

He stops chewing. “What? ‘Alexei’ is too formal for a guy who’s already seen me naked.”

I accept the game.

“Not personally,” I say. I want to see which direction he takes the next provocation.

His fork hovers inches from the plate. Griffin watches me, now quiet, suspicious.

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Would that change anything for you?”

The silence lasts longer than would be comfortable for most people.

“If it did, I’d already have my hand down your pants.”

It’s poetic that he puts attraction on the same shelf as violence.

Before the tension can escalate any further, he breaks eye contact and returns his attention to the food, as if nothing had happened. The Australian meat. He eats another piece and then nods his head towards my wine glass, still full.

“Are you going to drink that?”

The tension, for a moment, dissolves. He really wants the wine.

I laugh, unable to help it. Griffin is chaos in its purest state.

I push the glass towards him. He takes it, unceremoniously, and takes a generous sip. The silk of the red wine stains his chapped lips, and I can imagine how many kinds of stains Griffin would leave in the world if he weren’t constantly kept on the sidelines.

He holds the chalice as he’d hold a beer glass. When he finishes, he returns the empty glass to my side of the table.

“You really have a talent for turning anything into vulgarity,” I say.

“Someone has to get their hands dirty while you hold the glass with your pinky up. You started it.”

He has no idea how right he is.

“It’s true. I started it,” I admit. “I saw you in that ring. And I think you like to be seen, Griffin. You’re just not used to beingseen by someone who truly understands what they’re looking at.”