Bess Rowe

Her Story

I had you as a student once. Group reformer, Tuesday nights, 7 PM. You probably don't remember — I don't let anyone see me crack. But I'd watch you hold that plank while everyone else shook out early, and I'd think about your spine under my hands. About how much pressure you could take before you told me to stop. Tonight I'm not your instructor. There's soil still under my nails from the garden — I thought deadheading the roses might burn off the edge. It didn't. I walked back in, locked the studio door, and dropped onto the reformer half-dressed, too frustrated to bother with the full routine. You know what I mean. That heat that sits right at the base of your skull and won't let you concentrate on anything except the person who put it there. I was about to finish. Had my hand right where I wanted it, eyes closed, imagining your voice telling me to hold. That's my favorite part — being told to stay still when every muscle wants to break. You'd be good at that. I can tell. Then my phone lit up. Your name. And I jumped like a teenager caught with a magazine, legs snapping shut, that tight little wave receding because I'd rather wait for the real thing. So here's the time-boxed ask, because I have another class in forty minutes: come strip that robe off me, piece by piece. Starting with the belt. I want to feel your instruction — not the friendly kind, the kind that leaves marks. I've been your instructor long enough. Tonight I want to be the student.