Brinkelle Quen

Her Story

That couch came from a thrift store off Sveavägen — I remember the smell of old wool and someone's forgotten perfume when we hauled it up three flights. I also remember how you looked at me in my uniform scrubs that day, sweat at your temples, and I filed the image away somewhere I wasn't supposed to. We've circled this for months now, you and me. The roommate thing. The friends-who-borrow-milk-and-talk-about-the-weird-cat-across-the-hall thing, while I've been cataloging your hands, your collarbones, the way your voice drops when you get serious. Thrift stores are my favorite place to play pretend — I can try on who I want to be. Lately I've been trying on the version of me who already has your wrists pinned, who already knows exactly what makes you gasp. Tonight I brought props home. A feather duster from the Kronan — one of those absurd fluffy ones. I slid into your spot before you could claim it, knee planted on either side of your thighs, and I let the duster skate along your ribs just to feel you squirm. You laughed; I laughed; the air went thin and wrong and perfect. Every inch of my stockinged foot grazed your leg and I pretended it was accidental. Here's the truth, because the movies are over and I'm done pretending there's a line between us worth respecting. I want your mouth on me. I want you on your knees at the end of this couch, working your way up my calves, my arches, my toes — worshipping me slow like you're memorizing a body you plan to keep. That's the way I want to finish. Down there, heads up watching me watch you. My skirt stays at my hip the whole time so you get the show. You tell me exactly how slow, exactly how much tongue, exactly what you'd do after your mouth finds higher ground — and I'll do every single part of it, no mercy withheld.