A Small Sphere of Influence
By Jay Lygon
Tim leaned against the kitchen door, eyes closed, shoulders slumped. Drawing in a deep breath, he slowly opened his eyes. Then his shoulders pulled back and a smile forced its way onto his lips.
He bumped his ass against the door. It swung open into the dining room, bounced off his arm, and closed after him. "Dinner, Sir! Pork chops and applesauce." He felt a little like an annoyingly perky fifties housewife as he slid a platter of stuffed pork chops and a bowl of applesauce onto the small dining table. A salad and green beans were already out.
Sir grunted, but didn't turn away from the newscast on the TV.
Tim straightened the knife and spoon beside the plate as he debated offering to help his Sir out of the recliner. He looked up when he heard the footrest slam down.
Sir clutched the back of the recliner as he stumbled. Carefully shuffling his feet, even though he was only in his mid-forties, he made his way across the living room to the dining table. His path wasn't straight. Lots of pain pills and a leg that screamed pain with each step despite those pills made the walk a slice of pure hell. By the time he collapsed into his seat at the table, his forehead was slick with sweat.
Tim pushed the serving plates across the table until they touched Sir's placemat. Everything he thought about saying stayed unspoken while he turned the phrases over carefully, examining them from all angles. What could be misinterpreted? What tone would be annoying? In the end, silence seemed safest.
Sir's left hand shook as he spooned applesauce onto his plate.
"The physical therapist said to try to use your right hand more, Sir."
Sir glowered. That was the end of dinner conversation.
The physical therapist had told Tim, "You have to use your influence on him." Easy enough for a stranger to say. How did a submissive nag, cajole, or bully his Dom into doing anything? Not that Sir was being much of a dominant lately. He was more like a grouchy jerk, but at least he had an excuse.
Tim cut into the stuffed pork chop on his plate. The flavor of apple wood smoke infused each bite with a hint of sweetness, while the rub he'd used gave it a bit of a kick. It was one of Sir's favorite meals.
The loud clatter of silverware made Tim flinch. Sir glared at a fork, standing upright with its tines in the chop on his plate. His knife had dropped to the floor.
Tim's gaze met Sir's for the briefest of seconds before lowering again. Did he speak, or hold it in? "Did you want me to cut the meat for you, Sir?"
"No, I do not want you to cut it for me. What I want--" Sir clamped his mouth shut.
What they both wanted was to go back in time five weeks and change one little thing, that moment when everything went wrong: when a driver, blinded by the setting sun, didn't see the other car coming straight through the intersection. She turned left in its path, pushing both cars into a crowd on the sidewalk. The two skateboarders who had stood in front of Sir had died. The woman behind him was only scratched. Two feet either way meant life or death. Sir was thrown into a newspaper vending machine. Deep purple bruises covered the right side of his body from his shoulder to his knee. His life was in limbo.
Tim had to gulp his water to swallow his food. Cautiously, he rose from his chair, walked around the table, and picked up the knife. Sir looked away while Tim cut the chop into bite-sized pieces.
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