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" Don't worry." I meant it. I smiled as I tasted her on my goatee.She went to her purse, and recovered the thing I'd forgotten about, then started playfully swaying back to the bench."Okay, what have you got there?" I was actually eager to find out.With fiery excitement, "Your handcuffs!" She swung them around to display the cuffs I'd absent-mindedly left on the center console, which she must have picked up when my back was turned."What do you want with those?" Of course, I knew the answer, but that couldn't be right. She had submitted to me, hadn't she? Even if she hadn't, it still looked like she had, didn't it?"I want to cuff your hands behind your back while I ride you."Oh my god. Somehow, she had just uttered the most beautiful words ever spoken, and they sounded wrong. She was telling me to submit to her. This teenage girl was taking control. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't say no. I didn't want to say no. I was hesitant and eager and confused and utterly certain. This was not. There must be a reason for this disturbing trend. Reality has a way of whittling our true dreams down to size, like a lump of clay shaped or the piece of wood carved by skilled hands. And if we’re lucky, we hold our dreams sacred despite the cuts and scars, the flaws in character, the plans which count for nought. The Imam, assuming he had died that day, would have held his wild dreams to heart and would have never let go.There must be a place in the darkest fires of Hell where these dreamers stay. The flesh must singe, and the brain must boil. The darkness must be complete, and the depressions maddening. And within this dark place, the Imam must have heard the cries of millions, withstood the heat, or found another dream to follow. And because of his terrible location, he must have prayed until his mind smoldered. Perhaps he fell to his knees and offered Allah verbosity, idiom, and dangling participles, all of it rushed and too convenient. Or maybe he fell to his knees and simply.
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