We've passed through the suburbs of our own city and through a no man's land of industrial parks and towns that might count as suburbs. Now we're reaching the outskirts of the city where I'll be attending college. The music on the radio has mostly become static. I don't know when this happened. I haven't been paying attention.

He notices the poor reception and turns the radio off. Static hurts his ears.

Neither of us felt like listening to music anyway.

I glance out the window again, seeing the peculiarly golden glow of summer on the verge of turning into autumn. It's too sunny and beautiful. The only appropriate weather for today would be dismal, rainy, and cold.

"We need to talk."

I look up from the Gene Wolfe book I've been devouring. Gene Wolfe has been my latest obsession; he tells deceptively simple stories that you only realize near the end you didn't understand at all, so you need to read them a second time, and then a third, and maybe on the fourth or fifth reading you'll have an idea of what he was trying to imply between the lines.

"Yes, Erastes?"

"We will be parted from each other after you move into your dorm room."

"That does seem likely since I can't bilocate."

"No. You misunderstand me." He takes a deep breath. "We've talked about this before; I can't be everything you need. That will never change. I couldn't help but notice, when we watched Sirens last night, how you looked at Giddy throughout the video, especially when the other women teased her or put her in distress; nor could I ignore your tears after the end of the movie, despite your efforts to hide them. You don't need to hide things from me, by the way. You never did. That you still try to keep some deeply held feelings to yourself is a bad sign. That was ultimately what made me do some hard thinking. But quite aside from the trust issue, there are still things you need that I can never provide for you. I can never be a woman, for one thing; I can submit to you, but I can't enjoy the pain you need to inflict; I can't give you the variety you need, because I can't share you..."

"How do you know that if you haven't even tried?"

"Spoken by someone who has told me she has never once felt jealousy, so monogamy never seemed worth her trouble. This is a rift between us that I don't think can be bridged. Please believe me when I say jealousy is excruciatingly painful. It makes me afraid to lose you when I get jealous. What if you meet a woman who meets your needs better than I do? What if something I say as a result of my jealousy angers you, or pushes you away? You're only twenty-five. You have your entire life ahead of you still. By settling down with me, you give up your chances to live life on your own terms."

"No."

"Look me in the eye and tell me you won't miss the chance to be with other women. Or to be with anybody capable of going more extremely into sensation play and submission than I am. I'm still astonished that you could get as far with me as you did, but you need more. Why did you initially ask to be not just my lover, but also my apprentice? Was it to tie yourself to me forever and use almost nothing of what I taught you?"

"But I have been using it with you, haven't I? Some of it? Anyway, it's a bit late to think of that now. Our souls are married. Permanently."

"Our fortunes, however, are not. Beloved, I am a dead end for you. You will resent that, eventually. We need to part ways after I drop you off at college. I can't keep you."

No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no

A lump begins to build in my throat. I swallow it. Hard.

He looks at me incredulously. "Are you sure about this?"

"I want a piece of our relationship that will last forever. You say we can't have each other. At least leave me with scars I can look at and run my hands over."

"Ordinarily I'd save that for the aftermath of a collaring or a legal marriage, you know," he says quietly. "Marking you in preparation for severing our partnership seems almost sacrilegious."

"We wed our souls this Midsummer." I've been saying that in protest a lot these past few days, albeit mostly to myself.

"Yes. And we are parting so that my soul will not swallow yours."

I hold out the whip in silence, imploring him with my eyes.

Eventually, he sighs and takes it from my hand. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather have me do something a little less physically traumatic? Perhaps have me carve something pretty on you with a blade, to make it look more artistic? Some intertwining roses and vines, possibly? If I cut deep enough and pull your flesh apart just a little as I do it, there should be some keloid tissue formed. A cautery pen would also work for that, if I had one; I'm not sure I could obtain one on short notice, especially not without medical credentials, but I could put some feelers out."

"Then it would be decoration. I don't want just decoration. I want a part of us that I can keep."

"Eromene. This is going to have serious consequences. I'm going to have to work hard to keep you out of the hospital after I'm done. And after we separate, I won't be around to clean and dress your wounds as they heal."

"I think I can perform first aid on myself."

"I'm half tempted to let you put the marks on yourself, too," he mutters.

"Will I have to?"

He gives me a sharp look. "That was uncalled for, Eromene."

"I'm sorry..."

"Forgiven. And no, do not do it to yourself. It will cause less damage for me to do the deed since I have a more experienced hand. Well. You seem determined, and it's your body to modify as you see fit. I wish the occasion was a happier one, though, and I wish you were choosing a method that wouldn't require as much aftercare. I don't like this... Take off your clothes. They're in the way. Let's get you in better lighting, too, so I can see what I'm doing."

A few moments later, I'm standing in a patch of sunlight as he runs his hands over my body. This must be what it feels like to be sculptor's clay.

"Your buttocks and thighs are the only part of you that have an ample subcutaneous fat layer," he murmurs, kneeling down to look. "They'd probably be the safest place to mark, although whipping you hard there would make it nearly impossible for you to sit down or otherwise put your weight on the area for weeks, which will be impractical for you. Hmm. You might already have a few scars from the last time I used the whip end of your scourge on you; there are some interesting pale lines here."

"They might be stretch marks. I did gain some weight since moving in with you."

"You may be right about that."

He kisses my legs and runs his hands along them, up and down.

"I want to wear them close to my heart," I whisper. "It's the part of me that will miss you the most when we're separated."

"In that we are equal," he sighs. "Oh, my beloved." He stands up and puts his arms around me. I lean against his shoulder; we sway in place, unwilling to relinquish each other.

He is the first to pull away.

"It will have to be on your upper back. Using the whip on your breasts would be an extremely bad idea. I'm going to assume you prefer your nipples to remain attached to your body."

Well. Yes.

"And I think you'd better lie on top of the chest and hold on tightly," he says. "Even if I only hit you once. If I hit you more than once, I'll need to get some ropes to secure you and give you something to strain against. Did you only want one blow, since we're only doing this to leave marks? Or should I keep going?"

"Have we ever stopped at just one of anything?" I ask wryly, arranging myself as best as I can on the chest.

"It will be interesting to see whether or not you safeword before I risk flaying your back to ribbons," he muses. "I can't believe that after several years with me, you have still never used your safeword, except for the one time, which probably shouldn't count because you forgot it before you could actually use it... All right. We'll do that, then. When you lose control of your body, though, I'm going to have to restrain you, provided you don't beg me to stop, first. If I make you scream uncontrollably, that will need to be addressed, as well. I'd rather not get a knock on the door from the police. It is unlikely that any police officers called to the scene would understand or sympathize with the nuances of our situation. If I must gag you, repeatedly opening and closing your hand will be your safeword, and I will be watching carefully for it. Brace yourself."

The first lash lands. I feel my flesh rip apart in a blaze of agony. It matches the pain in my heart.

I will love you forever, I think, as I start to cry.