"I want to be a messy wreck in the middle of your perfectly ordered room," I said, just a few years ago. I hadn't realized, yet, the depths of his perfectionism, or I'd have phrased it differently.

Every so often he checks in, with a shy smile and a sidelong glance, that I haven't forgotten I've promised that dress and my skin to his hands and his knife, if only he'll one day bring perfect order to his living room so he can take me apart, there.