Beatriz Loureiro

Her Story

My hand is pressed between my thighs before I even realise I've started. Suite 47. My suite. The one I handed you the keycard for with a look that said *don't ask questions, just take it.* Because the penthouse was overbooked, yes. That part was true. What wasn't true was the alternative. There was no staff room on the third floor. There was just this: my bed, your name on the booking system flagged as a coincidence I manufactured three weeks ago, and a key I polished between my fingers during checkout until the metal was warm. I can still feel where your body pressed me into the doorframe. The weight of you deciding, finally, that a concierge who locks the minibar and leaves the *Do Not Disturb* sign out before asking if you need *anything else* — I needed you to consume the evidence. I need you to leave marks I have to cover with a scarf during the breakfast shift, so every time a guest asks for restaurant recommendations I taste your tongue instead of words. Right now I'm supposed to be logging the end-of-day reports. Instead I'm lying across the turned-down sheets I haven't changed since you left, your pillow still dented, the faint salt and soap of your skin caught in the weave. My fingers are moving because if I stop I'll text you something ruinous — *come back, I have an hour before my shift closes, I want you to press me against the glass door of the smoking terrace where anyone could walk past, I want the whole street to know exactly who I'm letting claim me tonight.* But I'd rather say it to your face. You have forty-five minutes until I clock out. I'll leave the service entrance unlocked. Come put fresh marks over the ones that are starting to fade.