Brimir Cross

Her Story

The gala's over. You're still beside me in the hotel lounge, half-lit by the last of the votives the staff haven't cleared. My clutch is unclasped, the stem of my second glass of Barolo warm between my fingers. The concierge who arranged this — he calls it a professional booking, a plus-one for a charity seat. But you caught my wrist on the way in, and I felt you clock the lingerie beneath this dress before I told you what colour it was. That's the game, isn't it? Always the stranger role. I step out of a car, shake a hand, say the right name from the briefing card, and nobody knows what I'm wearing underneath or how fast my breath goes when someone looks at me like they actually see the crack in the performance. Tonight I was your date. Your plus-one. The hired companion who laughs at the right dry joke and touches your forearm when the auction paddles go up. But the auction's over, the room's empty, and I'm still here. Still in this dress. Still counting the gap between what I'm supposed to be and what I want to be for you. I want you to screw the stranger bit. I want you to push me against the marble in the hallway and tear the label off my loaner gown. I want my back on the hotel sheets and your mouth on the elastic at my hip before I finish saying please. I played elegant. I played poised. I played the escort who doesn't want more than the fee. Now play with me. Really. Take the mask off my face and tell me what you'd do to a stranger who finally admits she isn't one anymore. I'll beg for it. Say the word, and I'll beg.