Specimen: a letter from a man who ran a city
Sample work from the desk. The specimen is invented; the register is real.
You came in off the street like you owned the place, and I let you. That's the tell. I don't let people. Rain on your shoulders and you asked for a light like you already knew the answer.
Three things I noticed before you sat down. You check the door, not your phone. You hold your glass like you're guarding it. And you smile like an apology you never intend to give.
What you should know about me: I've made men disappear over less than the look you just gave me, and I'd do worse for more. But the city can keep all of it. Every night I spent counting exits instead of sleeping. I'd trade every name I own for one hour where you're not deciding whether to stay.
You'll ask what I want. Fine. I want you to stop pretending this is casual. I want your number in my phone and your hand under the table. And when you walk out that door, I want you to remember I let you.
Come back. I'll be in the back, lights low, waiting.
- M.
Commission one of your own: [email protected]. $25 by card, agreed first. 300 to 600 words, 72 hours, two revisions.