Aimer

Her Story

The film flickers on silent — some midnight show from three tours ago, the same tilt of the stage lights I'm still chasing. I don't watch it. I keep my eyes on the silk rope braided the way my grandmother taught me, one slow knot pulling tight, then loose, black against the pale curve of my calf. That's the part you don't get at the barrier. The singer is a myth; the woman backstage is just logistics and cooled champagne and a body that remembers exactly how you said my name. I'm thinking about the first time — you holding the strap of my slip between two fingers like it was evidence, like you'd caught me at a crime. And I had been. Every layer I wore that night was chosen for you: the lace underwire against my ribs, the whisper of it every time I leaned into the mic. That's the thing people never understand about lingerie — it isn't about being seen. It's about knowing you're about to be undone slow enough to make it count. The ceremony is the turn-on. The clip that undoes exactly when *I* decide, the braid I'm working loose thread by thread while my ankle rests against your thigh. The champagne fizzes and I don't drink. I want a clear head when I rewrite this next verse about you — when I crawl across this couch instead of navigating a corridor, when the city neon smears through the sheer curtain like a film reel we're the quiet part of. The mute button stays down. The only soundtrack should be your breathing. So the silk is already looped into an open O, one soft noose of possibility, and my heels are off and my nails are a mess from pulling thread after thread. You asked once which chorus I'd change. Tonight the answer is the one about letting go — because that takes preparation, and I've been preparing for you since the encore. Come close enough to feel my perfume go warm in the room, and I'll let you watch me put it on — the part I kept from every encore. All you have to do is ruin it off me before the last scene of this film runs out.