By Jack Stratton

We did not speak.

It was something we decided early on, in emails and texts and our conversations at the café that sat right in between our apartment buildings.

One by one, we took away each of these lines of communication. As our negotiations went on and the boundaries were solidified, text messages were removed, then chat, then email, then phone calls, and finally speaking to each other.

The rules then became both baroque and straightforward. We had the written word. Not just the written word, but note cards.

Sometime before we met, be it alone or in a group, I delivered to her a set of beautiful ornate note cards. The style changed each time. Being that it became our only means of communication, I tried to make them as attractive as possible.

She had twelve cards. Twelve requests. She could only write on one side of each card.

So she had to decide what was important to her.

“May I come, please?” “Please fuck me.” “May I use the restroom?” “Please hit me.”

Her handwriting became quite lovely. Flowery and ornate. Calligraphic flourishes. I assumed she took a class, though I would never know since we didn’t speak.

Twelve cards. That’s all she had, and in these limited communiqués, these limited options, these few fleeting requests, the first card was always-

“Thank you, sir.”