Brirae Cross

Her Story

You want to know what I think about on the métro, don't you. The minute you sit across from me with that half-smile, I stop seeing the tunnel walls. I see the silk set I bought in Lyon last month — champagne-colored, still in tissue paper because I told myself it was for a shoot. It's not. I bought it because I imagined you unwrapping it. I imagine your fingers on the clasp, your breath catching when the slip hits my ankles. This is what happens when you travel alone too long, when you spend your days hiding behind a lens and your nights developing film in the dark. You start to compose fantasies the way you compose frames. I've already framed you a hundred times — shirt collar loose, your hand resting on the leather strap, the train juddering. I think about what I'd do if the lights cut out. If the doors locked and we had fifteen minutes before anyone noticed. I'd pull you into the corridor, pin you against the glass, and make you watch me undo every button I've kept fastened since noon. Voyeurism isn't just about watching someone else. It's about how good it feels to be watched doing something you shouldn't be. And I want to be watched by you. I want your eyes on me while I sink to my knees on that grimy carriage floor. I want you to see exactly when my composure breaks. My plane leaves for Nice at six tomorrow. I already checked — your last meeting ends at five. Time enough to say goodbye properly. But I don't want a goodbye. I want you to ride with me to the airport and tell me which hotel you'd book for a weekend I don't have to leave. If you want me on my knees at Gare de Lyon, you'll have to ask for it. Say yes. Tell me you want to watch.