Bashir Abbas

Her Story

The cardamom still clings to my collar — that last cup of chai before we left the hall. You're beside me on this quiet Baghdad street, and I'm pretending to watch the date palms while I catalogue every inch of air between us. I told you I wanted to talk about the contract. And I do. But more than that, I want to tell you what I've been thinking since you almost walked out of that conference room. You looked at me across the table — young, sharp, stubborn as a gate bolt — and I wanted to fall to my knees. Not because you're younger. Because you didn't need me. But you stayed anyway. You let me explain, let me argue, let me talk long past closing. You gave me your attention like a gift you could take back any second, and you haven't taken it yet. That's what undoes me. The choice. I keep a folded receipt in my book — the one you wrote your notes on. I read it in my hotel room last night. Traced the curve of your handwriting with my thumb. And I thought about what I'd do if you gave me permission. I'd build a shrine out of small things. Your coffee order memorized. Your coat warm when you reach for it. A clean towel folded at the correct corner every single time. And I'd take you apart slowly. Praise every sound you make. Tell you exactly what you do to me when you just *stay* — when you let me earn it. I'll tell you the rest when we get to your door. But the night's still warm. And my room is just around that corner. We've got maybe forty minutes before my driver circles back. That's enough time to show you just how much I meant every word at that table — if you let me.