My first real relationship was off the record, with a man whose name I never knew.
He was a High-Risk man.
Yes, very on brand with my whoring mother, some might say.
The difference however, was that unlike her, I never wasted emotions on men who lived on the edge.
If a High-Risk man wanted you, he only wanted one thing, and there was comfort in that. In being able to filter through the noise. No pretending, no rehearsed speeches about forever. Certainly no discussions about filing for licences or daydreaming about compatibility indices.
Just honesty.
I considered him my practice round.
Every woman ought to have one.
Better to make mistakes with someone the government had already written off than a Green or even an Amber, whose paperwork mattered and could influence your future.
His name was TJ.
Or at least that’s what he called himself.
For all I knew he could be a Thomas Junior or Tyler James. Or two borrowed initials stitched together for convenience.
I never found out.
At first, I assumed it was deliberate. Men like TJ were careful with names. They had to be.
For the entire nine months we were together, he kept his cards closely pressed to his chest and sometimes it made me wonder if he even knew what they were.
When your face sits inside a government database under a blood-red marker,privacy becomes luxury.
Every pulse centre within your radius knows you. So does every landlord, employer, auditor and everyone with access to your status. So you learn to keep some things for yourself.
Legally barred from reproduction and locked out of marriage, High-Riskers were officially damned to no continuity. A dead end.
Unofficially though, everyone knew at least one. The trick was to not get caught knowing them a little too well. Prolonged romantic association attracted questions, welfare interviews and record altering conversations no one wanted.
TJ, unlike most High-Riskers whose files had crossed my desk years later, inherited his status.
He had a rough start before he’d even learned long division. His Father served as a prime exhibit for the reason Manie’s Law was drafted in the first place. After he nearly beat his wife to death when TJ was just seven years old. That single night followed TJ like a foul stench, earning him a place on the government watchlist. Which many argue is worse than being directly High-Risk.
Being on the watchlist meant the government was waiting to pounce on the scent of actioned or even intended violence.
According to the Ministry, these tendencies echoed through DNAs and rarely skip a generation. Sons inherited fists and daughters inherited poor judgement. Neither inspired much confidence in reproduction.
By Sixteen TJ had already attended mandatory behavioural reviews. The stain became a permanent fixture when he verbally assaulted a colleague for calling him a ‘Dead-End dirtbag’. Honestly, I was surprised he stopped at words.
I learned all this the responsible way. I searched him up in the Pulse database. I didn’t want to be with too high a High-Risker. I remember being mildly disappointed that the Ministry had not bothered to record his original documents. No birth certificate or full name, just two lonely initials.
TJ.
“How can you not know your own name?” I asked one night.
We lay on his narrow mattress in his musty one-bedroom apartment, where the living room and kitchen had surrendered to sharing the same room. My head rested on his chest as I absent-mindedly plucked at the thick coils of hair scattered across it.
“I don’t know.” He laughed, wincing as another hair disappeared between my fingers.
“My mum only called me TJ. There was… a lot going on back then.”
“For seven years?” I propped myself onto one elbow.
“You never wrote your surname in a schoolbook or anything?”
“I was homeschooled.” He chuckled. “So all my teachers already knew my name.”
I blinked rapidly trying to stabilise my mind from imploding with questions.
“Homeschool? In The Republic? Is that even legal?”
“Are you here to debate legalities…”He turned to me. “...or get a good lay, eat my food and go home?”
“Both are important, my no-name friend.”I laughed.
“Oh.” He teased.
“We’re friends now? What we just did wasn’t very friendly. I’m sure I can find a friendlier version.”
Before I could think of something witty, he pressed his lips on mine, and sucked in my air as he kissed me deeply.
The hardest part about dating TJ wasn’t hiding him. It was fighting my emotions from crystallising.
Sometimes, while my friends traded stories about the men in their lives, my thoughts wandered toward him before I could stop them.
He is a good lay.
He is a great cook.
That is all this is.
I’d repeat to myself trying to break the possibility of becoming a statistic. One of those lost women who waste their youth on dead-ends.
One evening my lips nearly betrayed me. We were having dinner at Vivian’s apartment, the three of us semi-circled around her, me on the sofa with her and the other two on the floor. Vivian liked to play hostess, her apartment was large, tasteful and needlessly decorated.
The living room fenced decorative pillars that served no architectural purpose and the chandelier hung low enough to get high-fived.
“So…”Vivian began.
“I don’t understand how you do it.”
“Hm?”
“This celibacy thing.” I coughed almost choking on my wine.
“Oh Viv…” I pleaded, waving her off. “Not this again.”
“I’m serious.” She leaned forward.
“I understand wanting to keep your record clean, but you do know you don’t need a licence for sex right?” She continued louder than before, rousing the attention of the others, her lips teasing a smirk.
“Viv please..”I threw my hands up exasperatedly.
“But it’s the truth. We have spent years listening to stories about everyone else’s men.” She gestured around the room over the heads of the girls.
I watched the others, Celeste and Elaine, and already knew how this conversation would unfold if I didn’t respond the right way.
Celeste would make a joke only she found hysterical enough to laugh at. Elaine would see both sides so deeply her eyes could cross. Then Vivian would interrogate me until I either lied or let them set me up with another desperate Green. Like the many others that had irked me for years.
“And who says I have no one?” I found myself saying before I could stop the words from tumbling out.
Loose lips sink ships, I chanted in my head.
“Oh?” Vivian’s eyes lit up, she filled her half full glass with more white wine.
“Say more.”
Don’t
I smile.
“I wish I could.” I shrug and force a helpless expression. “He’s not one for kissing and telling.”
Good. Safe.
“Well until we file atleast.”
No. Why?
Vivian eyed me suspiciously, a frown slowly knit her thick eyebrows.
“But surely, you haven’t been with this mystery man longer than I’ve been with Edmond.” She whispered, her lips formed a pout.
“No, certainly not.” I smiled.
“Good.” She relaxed, resuming her high pitch.
“Remember we can’t have more than one wedding in a year.”
The others nodded with genuine social concern.
Multiple weddings had become an issue such that dates had to be booked with venues, and planners had to be sourced the minute you were seeing a green. Unless you chose a government approved venue for half the price, half the quality and usually half your dignity.
I smiled along as another topic of conversation broke. All the while imagining another version of the world.
One where TJ wasn’t High-Risk.
One where we met somewhere other than beneath a freight depot under the protective shadows of cargo containers.
One where I had not fallen for him.
One where I hadn’t walked into his apartment later that evening, ending us, before the wine had left my bloodstream.
“And where has all this come from?” TJ stood by the door, watching me sway, as I searched my phone for a local taxi company.
“Come from?” I laughed.
“It was never going anywhere.” I hiccuped. “We both knew that. We both agreed… that.” I burped.
“But that was nine months ago.” His voice was quiet, I found myself straining to hear. “And, and things…changed.”
“For who?”
He held my gaze. “Both of us.”
We both went quiet.
“I know you felt it.” He continued, stepping forward into the dull shine of the moon. “And now you’re trying to outrun it.” He reached for my shoulder before I shrugged him off.
“Well, the least you could do is have this conversation sober.”
I laughed so deeply I felt my throat itch.
“That’s funny. Would my courtesy un-stain you kind sir?” I risked a curtsy before steadying my balance again.
His expression hardened.
“Don’t do this, Annie. Please go home.” He said retreating to the door with his back turned to me.
I felt heat rise first into my neck and tasted the cheese fondue and white wine mix at the back of my throat.
I need a bucket.
“You are nothing but a dirty— “
“Annie.”
“— low-down…”
The taxi connected.
“Dead-End.”
My word vomit pooled between us before the driver answered.
I can’t believe I didn’t need a bucket.
TJ stared at me for what felt like an eternity.
A part of me wanted him to do it. Prove his status was earned as well as inherited. I wanted his fists to sink into my face so I could run far, far away from him. So I could bury the wild urge to sink to my knees in defeat.
Then he nodded.
“Goodnight Annie…”
Tears stung the corners of my eyes.
“And goodbye.” He added closing the door softly.
It wasn’t until the cool night’s breeze had settled against my skin, that I heard my phone ringing.
Omg this has me making so many different plots in my head. TJ im looking at you 🤨
The plot is plotting! 👀 But TJ, what are you hiding? 🤔 I don’t like you as much, but this surely can’t be the end of Tannie 😩. But Annie… you’re actually a bit toxic 😂. Why would you want him to hit you? I guess you wanted him to prove your decision was right and make the breakup easier, but stilllll . So you can report him, abi? I see what you’re up to 👀.