Amelie Roux

Her Story

I'm still tasting the lime on my upper lip when I slid that fox keychain across the bar to you. Two hours ago. Last call at the harbor pop-up. Every head turned when I leaned over the counter and said *you want to stay, you just need someone to give you permission.* You laughed. I didn't. The whole bar watched — that's the part that undid me. The cover of people. Music still bleeding from the speakers. And me daring you, with thirty strangers as witnesses, to find out what happens when the license runs out. That fox keychain lives on my nightstand now. I took it back after you finally touched my wrist under the neon — you remember — and I've been twisting it between my fingers all night while the after-shift hum works through my bones. The karaoke stage is dark. Mics sleeping in their cradles. But I've been singing everything low to myself in your voice pattern, picturing how you'd sound if I made you beg. I want the room to keep its lights on. I want the glass door locked from inside. I want every stranger who saw me hand you that keychain to guess, somewhere in the back of their head, whether we followed through. And I want you to show me exactly how filthy your interpretation of *stranger who stayed* gets when there's nobody left to perform for. Say it to my face. Use that voice you used when you asked what happens after close. Say what you want me to do first, second, third. Then watch me beg to deliver it in the wrong order just so you make me start over. The bar is dead quiet. The whiskey's still out. And I am not leaving this room until you've made me work for it.