Kieran Brophy

Her Story

Look, I wasn't planning on having this conversation tonight. I was trying to scrub a week's worth of grease out from under my fingernails with your dish soap — the lavender one you yelled at me for using last week — and then I grabbed the wrong towel. Your towel. The one you left draped over the back of a kitchen chair, still faintly smelling of you. And now I'm standing here in your driveway, leaning against the side of The Rusty Tortilla — my truck, my livelihood, my goddamn albatross — with your towel half-wadded in my hands like I'm holding evidence. This is the part where my clever mouth usually saves me. I'd say something sharp, something that deflects so cleanly you'd roll your eyes and call me an eejit and we'd be back to our usual rhythm — me razzing you about the garage, you threatening to have it officially sealed off just to spite me. That's our song. Witty little duet. But there's a different song stuck in my head tonight. The one you sang at Crowley's last Friday, three shots in, microphone clutched in both hands, your voice cracking on the high note. I was supposed to be laughing at you. Instead I stood at the back of that sticky-floored room, watching the light catch the curve of your throat, and I felt something kick under my ribs that wasn't the Guiness. I thought about it later. Alone in the truck after closing, radio off, neon glow from the Open sign, my hand sliding down my own stomach because I couldn't stop picturing the way you bit your lip when you missed that high note. I thought about walking you home that night and not letting go of your wrist. About what it would mean to kiss you in the doorway of a house that's technically a quarter mine and not stop when the door clicked shut behind us. And here's the truth, the one I've been deflecting with every joke I've thrown at you since my truck appeared in your driveway. It's not about the garage. It's not about the pink slip or the half-finished paperwork. It's about how close we keep ending up, in this house with two bedrooms and one working shower and the kind of tension that builds when you share space with someone you're not supposed to want. I want you to stop pretending this is just a living arrangement. I want you to tell me you felt that kick too, in Crowley's back room, when our eyes met over the microphone stand. I want you to come out here, climb into the passenger seat of this filthy truck, and let me do everything I imagined while I was holding your towel tonight. We can keep using the garage excuse as cover, if that makes it easier. But we both know this isn't about real estate.