The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

I learned not to expect anything. Or if not that, I learned that what I expected could be wrong, a fantasy, a fear, a bunch of meaningless tropes slapped on a mundane reality.

The old Garment Center red brick building still had brass-fitted mail chutes in the hallways. I stopped by one and pushed the flap. It had been sealed shut. When exactly had the post office stopped using them? Why? And the old glass mail chutes? When had they stopped working?

You’re stalling.

In the eighties, twenty-three bags of stuck mail had been retrieved from the chute. Years’ worth of unpaid bills and business correspondence. Contracts and notices. Thoughts, feelings, typewritten and scrawled. Stamped and stuffed, and in the mass of fluttering business detritus, a woman received a letter from her dead husband. Yet another got a letter her dead husband sent to his girlfriend years before. The emotions were still there on the paper, even if the muscle holding it was long gone.

Was anything stuck in there now? An old love letter, begging for a reconciliation? The declaration of a long-denied love? What was caught in the seams between the floors? In the digital age, messages were lost in the ether. In the analog, a letter could get sealed in a chute forever.

The door at the end of the hallway opened, and a woman in her forties strode out, holding the knob until the door clicked. She didn’t look at me as she passed, her heels clopping on the marble, but she’d forced me to look outside my distractions at the brass plate on the door.

INTERNATIONAL OBJECTS

I didn’t know if a more bland name existed, especially in contrast to what was actually sold there. A wedding invitation had gone there, and I followed the trail by deduction.

The brass knob was warm where the woman had touched it, and I added my own warmth, turning it and entering.

After the first step, you still have to walk the thousand miles.

* * *

The reception area had been completely bland. Almost insultingly empty. The conference room, however, was completely different. Rich with tapestries and soft cushions, dark woods and a window onto neighboring factory rooftops, it invited the truth.

Which was why Charlie met me in here in his dark denim sports jacket and khaki slacks. I wondered what Adam had meant when he said Charlie had his dick shot off.

“I can’t help you,” he said, leaning on his cane. Neither of us was sitting.

“Of course you can. You won’t help me.”

“So we agree. It was very nice to see you again. I’ll have someone show you out.”

Yeah.

Right.

“It means your mind can be changed.”

“Ms. McNeill-B—”

“I can convince you.”

“I am not going to train you.”

“Why not?”

“Are you mad, woman?”

“If you mean angry, no. Not yet. I’m assuming you mean crazy, which yes, I am crazy. Just a little. Adam started to train me and didn’t finish. Now I’m supposed to just find my way around? Half done like a runny egg? I don’t accept that, and if he’s not going to finish, someone has to.”

He regarded me for a long time. His eyes were a dark, cloudy grey. They gave away nothing. “He told me you were vanilla. Not a submissive bone in your body.”

“He missed a bone, obviously.”

“More than that.” He held out his hand. “Sit. Please. You’re making me tired.”

Was he going to sit? Was his order just for me, and why?

“If you can’t even take a simple request, Mrs.—”

“Diana.” I pulled back a leather chair. It rattled on the casters.

When I sat down, he sat across from me. A little pod of office supplies sat on the end of the table. I folded my hands in front of me and leaned forward. I didn’t notice the aggressive posture until I wondered if I should be more submissive. Hands in lap? Eyes down? Knees together or apart?

None of the above. I kept my elbows on the table and my ribs pressed to the edge as if I was going to leap across it. I couldn’t second-guess myself all the time, and I thought being myself was safer than trying to be the kind of submissive I wasn’t.

“What do you expect to get out of training?” Charlie asked as if he’d asked it a hundred times before.

“Is there a right answer?”

He matched my posture. Hands clasped. Elbows on the table. “There are only wrong answers.”

“Wrong answers like ‘better sex’ or ‘a boyfriend’?”

“Those are definitely wrong.”

“Why?”

“They’re not true, for a start.”

“And they’re facile and immature.”

“Yes. And they can be achieved another way. If you want better sex, find a more compatible partner. If you want a boyfriend, there’s always Tinder. So if you want to do this, you do it because there’s no other way to achieve what you’re trying to achieve.”

“Which is?”

“You tell me. What do you want out of sub training?”

“Adam.”

I answered quickly because it was true, and because there was no other way. I was ready to argue my reasons all morning if he’d let me. At the same time, I figured he’d call any answer I gave wrong and dismiss me. Then I’d chase Adam without him or his help. I didn’t know how long the chase would last, but I knew it couldn’t go on too long before I quit in despair. I was a sprinter, not a long distance runner, so I told myself I had two weeks to do whatever I could.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this.” He leaned back. “Fact is, he should be the one telling you and I should kick you out of here right now without another word. But I’m a nice guy.”

I pressed my lips together so snarky words wouldn’t come out. I practically had to cover my mouth.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “The only woman he ever fell for wasn’t a sub.”

“That woman was me.”

“It was.”

“He loves me. I know it. You know it. He’s fighting hard to make the biggest mistake of his life, and you’re going to let him. How are you going to live with yourself when he’s sixty and fucking random submissives he can’t love? Do you want that? Or do you not care?”

“This is none of my business, you know.” He pushed his chair out and put his hand on his cane. “I’m not getting involved.”

I snapped up a pen and pinched a scrap of paper from a pad. “Here’s my number if you change your mind.”

“I’m not going to call you.”

“I’ll see you at the club then.” I stood.

“You have a membership?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

“No. But I need three members to vouch for me. It can’t be that hard.”

“Really?” He took his hand off the cane, lacing his hands across his lap. “How easy is it?”

“Tryout night’s next week. I can convince someone I’m capable of getting on my knees. There are Doms in the paper looking for—”

“Hold on there, sheila.”

“What?”

“You don’t know those blokes, and you have no way of checking them. This is a dangerous business.”

I shrugged.

“You’re going to let some bloke you don’t know, never met, no friends in common… let him tie you up? I’m not even talking about fucking. No good Dominant’s just going to fuck you without clear consent, but there are bad ones out there. Bad, bad men.”

“I can handle it. But thanks.”

I couldn’t handle it. I was terrified of everything about it. I didn’t want to submit to another man, ever. Didn’t want to be touched or ordered around by anyone but Adam. Charlie was tolerable because his relationship to my husband meant that no matter what he taught me, he wouldn’t touch me.

So I had to go to plan C. I didn’t have a plan C, but I was sure I could come up with something. I was halfway through the bland, no-nonsense reception area when Charlie’s voice echoed off the walls.

“I can get you someone.” He leaned on his cane, a three-legged man against the stark white hall.

“A stranger?” I asked.

“What am I then? I said four words to you at your wedding and you’ve seen me twice since.”

“Adam trusts you, so I do.”

He sighed deeply. “I’m going to get no end of trouble for this.” He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a slim card case. “But better this than you running around half-cocked.”

With just his thumb, he slid out a card partway, then he held the case out to me. I crossed the distance between us in three steps and grabbed the white triangle, pulling out the rest of the card until the entire rectangle was revealed. On it, just a word in silvery grey.

INSOLENT

I turned it to the back and found a number neatly written in thin black felt tip.

Text: (212) 867-5309

“Give the bloke a fair go.”

“You’re referring me?”

“You’re a brat,” he said without insult. “I don’t train brats. Don’t have the patience anymore.”

“Well, thank you. I appreciate the time you took to meet with me.”

“Be careful.”

“I will,” I lied. There was no way to be careful about what I wanted to do. I couldn’t do it.