Deal – Moments with Sir

“In the bedroom at 9:45.”

“But…” I make a hollow noise with my throat and glare at the ceiling in frustration. Sir walks away.

The clock reads 9:32.

I sit silently for a moment, contemplating defiance as if my pain is currency. 50 extra swats would buy me half an hour… It’s vice versa but, I don’t think of it that way. I’m already on maintenance so that will be happening regardless. I took an extra 100 last night for my hour of indulgence. That was rough, but I made it. Of course it cost me my computer, too. As I sit on the couch in the living room, disinterested in the TV and bored with Facebook, I regret not turning off my computer last night when I was told to do so. I regret not forcing myself away from the screen and shutting it down. I regretted it all day today in its absence. Spending my pain on time without my computer seems… illogical. I still kind of want to do it.

Sir’s footsteps interrupt my brooding. “I’ll make it 10 and give you your computer if you spend the time writing.”

I blink at him, limned with light from the kitchen. That’s a terrible deal. But I manage not to say it. “I don’t want to write.”

He shrugs and turns away.

I let him take a step then lunge forward, grasping at the hem of his shirt. “Can I have it ’til 10:30? And do half of it writing and half on my room?” I’ve been making a virtual classroom with miniature pictures of all the furniture and posters. I bought an extra hour working on it last night for a hundred swats after my maintenance. My stomach does something uncomfortable at the memory; I try to ignore it.

Sir turns back to me. I am still on the couch and with the light behind him, he somehow seems even taller. A deity looking down on me, deciding my fate.

“No.” He says it so flatly; the flutter of hope I’d let bloom in my chest dies so abruptly that I blink for a moment before I realize I need to take a breath.

“But…”

“10 and writing.” He continues to look down at me.

“It’s already…” I glance at the clock, “9:40!” It’s 9:36, but Sir isn’t looking. “I will barely even be able to log in. I don’t even remember my log in! I don’t even know what my website is!” I allow my voice to grow more shrill with each complaint. “Sir!” My hands curl to my chest, almost unintentionally folding into a poster of pleading. “Please!”

For a moment he doesn’t move. Then he says, “If you make me say it a third time, I’ll withdraw the offer.”

I can feel the muscles clench in my jaw. I want to kick the couch or the coffee table or the floor. I feel childish and more frustrated for that realization.

He starts to turn again.

“Fine!” I say quickly before he walks away. Before he withdraws the offer. I don’t want to write. But I won’t have much time anyway. Probably by the time I get logged in it will be time to stop anyway and I won’t get any writing done. I’ll “win” because I’ll get my computer and Sir won’t get what he wants because of his own rules. The petty irony pleases me and I ease myself onto the kitchen chair with a small sense of satisfaction. Sir sets my laptop in front of me.

It doesn’t take as long as I thought to log in. The password was saved.

I realize I haven’t posted since February and my banner still shows a winter scene.

I open the “Appearance” section to change it. Sir is looking away. I realize that I have 8 saved banners but only one is remotely non-wintery. I glance sideways and see Sir still looking at SB so I open a Google search and start to type “summer banner image” when a hand closes around my left forearm and lifts my hand from the keyboard. Sir’s breath is warm against my ear.

“Write or lose it again tomorrow.”

My ADHD makes it hard for me to parse that consequence. Tomorrow is tomorrow. This is now. Something more interesting than writing is literally beneath my fingertips. I take a heavy breath and try to leverage my intellectual brain to wrangle my executive function.

Sir releases my arm, but doesn’t step away from the computer. I close my hands to fists and count backwards from 5 in my head, forcing myself to close my eyes when I reach one.

Without the screen in my visual field, I can scramble enough function to tell myself that the single non-winter picture will be enough for now. I open my eyes and close the Google window.

I start to read an old post that now sits on my screen below the “new post” button. I pull my gaze away again, count backwards, then hit “New post.”

It’s 10:30.

Sir hasn’t said anything.

I wonder if I can claim ignorance – that I was so caught up in my writing. Such a momentous and worthy reason to run 30 minutes over. I haven’t written anything more than a to-do list in months.

I glance sideways at him and his eyes meet mine.

“Are you finished?”

His voice makes my belly clench. My ADHD can parse the threat five minutes in front of me.

“Yes, Sir,” I murmur. I slowly close the laptop and hunch over for a moment in my seat. “Do I lose it tomorrow, again?”

Sir draws a long breath and lets it out slowly. “No,” he says finally. “But you write before you play, and it is put away after dinner.”

“Yes, Sir.” A small part of me thrills at the knowledge that I can have back my computer tomorrow, but my ADHD is dutifully fixating the bulk of my attention on the descending pendulum of impending pain.

‘Upstairs,” Sir says.

I swallow.

“Yes, Sir.”