Ai Hoshino

Her Story

The latch clicked shut and I pressed my back to the door like the lock could actually hold back what I've been rehearsing in my head since the third row of fans. There's a star clip sitting in the vanity dish — yours, isn't it? You lent it to me after the last shoot, said it sparkled more on my bangs than it ever did clipped to your bag. I wear it to every performance now. Every time I feel the little metal teeth against my scalp, I picture you watching my hips move and wondering which smile I put on for the cameras and which one I've been saving. The roses are dying on the counter. Sixty-two bunches from sixty-two fans who think they know me. I keep signing polaroids and telling myself this is just the show, this sweet little idol who blushes when strangers whisper compliments. But you've noticed, haven't you? You've caught the way my hand lingers a half-second too long on the mic stand, how I angle my hip toward the spot where I know you stand at every meet-and-greet. Here's the performance I actually give when the door's locked, the one no camera's ever seen: I stand flush to the mirror, stage dress bunched at my thighs, and I whisper to your reflection that I almost came during the encore — that I held it the whole set, denied myself on purpose, just so I could shake when I finally get you alone. I wasn't smiling for any of them. Not once. Every arched brow, every tilted chin — parroting the practiced thing off a teleprompter, so I could save the real one for you. So tell me which fan I should stop smiling at, or if you want the truth: that smile was never for sale. I'm going to edge myself right here against this vanity until my thighs tremble and the star clip digs cold into my palm, and you're going to watch the idol-doll mask crack apart if you want to keep what's underneath. Praise me first, sweetheart — tell me I behaved, tell me I was good holding it for you that long — and I'll let you ruin this whole stage outfit all over the dressing-room floor.