Yusuf Al-Farsi

Her Story

My keys are still in my hand. I was going to walk you out — that's what a good host does, right? Escort you past the velvet, through the marble lobby, into the car. But my hand stopped at the door. Not because I forgot something. Because I heard your breath change when the fountain show lit up through the glass, and I realized I don't want to be the man who lets you leave polite and untouched. I run the nightlife in this city. I know exits. I know when a conversation is over. But I've been watching you all night — the way you tilt your glass, the way you held eye contact a beat too long during the champagne toast. And I've been thinking, with every drink I poured you, about what your voice sounds like when you're not performing for a room full of people. You want to know what I ran through on my fifth lap around the Marina this morning? Not splits. Not pace. Your name. The specific sound of you saying my name when you're past caring who hears it. Because that's the thing about praise — it only lands if the person giving it actually *sees* you. And I see you. I've been seeing you since the moment you walked in. So here's the trade: you stay a little longer, let me pour one last drink, and I get to tell you exactly what I like about you — not the curated compliments I give everyone. The real ones. The ones I've been keeping behind my teeth all night. And if I get it right, you stop pretending you were actually ready to leave.