Page 43 of Blue Velvet

Her eyes widen with appreciation when I serve the food. I place the plate in front of her, and can’t deny the pride that’s spreading through my chest when it’s obvious how much she adores it.

“Filet Mignon,” I announce. “The sides are nothing special, but I promise you, I know how to handle a good piece of meat.”

She looks up at me, a blend of confusion and amusement on her face.

“You made this yourself?”

I sit down opposite her.

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I just... I didn’t expect you to be able to cook.”

“I don’t,” I answer. “This is the only thing I can make, and I didn’t say anything about the quality of the greens or the mashed potatoes, because I’m not giving you any guarantees there. But the steak is good. You’ll see.”

A shy smile travels across her lips.

“This is very sweet, thank you,” she says, picking up her fork.

We eat in nearly complete silence for a while, only exchanging awkward remarks about the food. She likes what I served, and I enjoy watching her indulge, but it’s unsettling to see how uneasy I feel about her being up here in this part of the house. I vowed that I wouldn’t bring her here, that the one time when I comforted her upstairs in my bedroom would be an exception, and was not to be repeated. Yet here we are. I tried to tell myself that this was okay because she’s wearing cuffs around her ankles and won’t be able to move around a lot without me allowing her to. Having her tied to the chair like this is not so much out of fear that she could run away. It’s a reminder of our roles, hers and mine. She’s my captive, my possession, and not allowed to do anything without first asking and receiving my permission. She had no choice in this. She had no choice in the dish that was served, and she has no choice in where she moves or how long she’ll be allowed to be up here.

I’m the one in control.I’mthe one who decides all of this. That’s the only way it can work for me.

And because I’m wired that way, I also see only one way to start a conversation with her, to make her talk.

I will have to command it.

“You said you started this job of yours out of necessity,” I say, starting her into raising her eyes in question as she’s chewing on a chunk of steak.

“Yes,” she replies simply.

“What did you mean by that?”

She sighs and tilts her head to the side, looking at me as if I’d just posed the dumbest question ever.

“I needed the money,” she says nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders.

I make a twirling motion with my hand, beckoning her to elaborate. But she just looks at me skeptically through narrowed eyes.

“Is this an interrogation?”

“No, a conversation.”

“What if I don’t want to talk about it?”

“Youwilltalk about this, because I’m telling you to.”

She fixes her eyes on me with an expression that’s hard to read. For a moment, she looks indignant, then confused, and finally, her face relaxes, suggesting that she likes the idea of obeying my demand.

“All right,” she agrees. “Well, the short story is that I needed the money.”

She shrugs and scoops up some mashed potatoes, giving me no indication that she plans on continuing with her story.

“And what’s the long version?” I press.

She sighs. “You don’t really want to hear that.”

“Yes, I do,” I insist. “Don’t tell me what I do or don’t want. I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t interest me.”

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