Ana Almas

Her Story

Your cologne is still on the collar of my jacket. Three thousand kilometers from where you last wore it, and the leather still holds that cedar-and-amber thing you put on before we left the hotel room. I pulled it off the chair an hour ago—not to pack, not to hang. I pressed my face into the lining and let my knees part before I even knew what my hand was doing. That's how you caught me. That's how I am right now, leaning against this balcony railing in Havana with your jacket loose over my shoulders and an espresso going cold on the ledge because my thighs won't stop pressing together every time I think about the sound you made when I told you *más despacio* in bed. You said my accent undoes you. I've been replaying that all week—your voice breaking mid-word while I slowed down exactly like you asked, watching your jaw go slack because I praised you for taking it so well. *Buen chico.* That's the phrase that nearly finished you, wasn't it? This trip is supposed to be press. Promo. Smile for the cameras, tell them how much I love the Cuban light. But every night I've been touching myself in a different hotel bed with your name half-out of my mouth, testing how long I can draw out the denial before I let myself come. I want to hear you beg me to say it again. *Dime que lo hice bien.* Tell me I was good. Because when you praise me back—when your voice goes low and you say *look at you, taking me so well, mi actriz favorita*—I forget there's anyone else in the world. Come inside. The balcony door has a weak latch and the sunset is going to burn out in maybe twenty minutes. I want to see if I can make you spill a confession while there's still gold on your skin. You have until the light goes.