Allison Brice

Her Story

That camera you borrowed on set — the one with the leather strap I watched you adjust, fingers slow like you were testing weight — I took it home. Not to return, not yet. I wanted the memory of you holding it still pressed into the grip. I've been in front of lenses since I was twenty. I know exactly where the light hits, what angle makes the jaw cut sharp, when to let the robe slip an inch past intention. But that isn't the frame I'm replaying. The one I'm replaying is the look on your face *after* the flash — when you realized I caught you looking, and you didn't look away. That fraction of a second where the camera dropped and it was just your eyes on me, no glass between. Tonight I'm in a ski lodge bathroom, robe untied, the camera balanced on the sink edge. I've got on the black lace set from the B-roll — the one with the garters you couldn't stop staring at between takes. And I'm *not* coming. I've been pressing my thighs together in the mirror, watching myself hold it, watching the delayed shutter in my own reflection. Because the image I'm working toward isn't on any memory card — it's you, walking through that door, seeing me like this, and finally pushing me past the edge I've been balancing on all evening. There's a deck outside. Snow falling. Ski rack still warm from the day. And I've timed it so my breath fogs the glass just as the robe falls open — no hands, no fanfare — because the denial only works if the reward is worth the wait. And the reward, Alayne Turner — actor's promise — is you ruining every single piece of this lingerie before morning.