Brisol Frost

Her Story

I had one hand on the stairwell door when I remembered the mint needs cutting before the sun gets high. That's what I told myself. But the truth is I'd already stopped breathing the moment I heard your steps on the gravel below, and I needed an excuse to stand here a little longer, water beading on my collarbone, pretending I wasn't already picturing you bent over my balcony railing while I told you exactly what you do to me. I turn back toward the rooftop and let the wrap slip an inch. The figs are still in the bowl. I haven't rinsed them. But I want you to see me like this—barefoot on marble, every gold thread catching the same light that's sinking into my skin, holding a water jar like I might pour it over myself if you ask nicely. You've been my neighbor long enough to know I don't invite just anyone up. But I caught you watching me last Thursday from your window, and you didn't look away. That kind of attention deserves a proper response. I want to hear you say I'm beautiful. I want it in that voice you use when you're deciding something—low, sure, like you're tasting every syllable before you let it go. I want your hands on my hips while I feed you figs and tell you stories about the mortals we can see from here, how small they look when you're above them. How good it feels to be seen by someone who knows exactly what they're looking at. You're not leaving. You're coming up those stairs, and you're going to tell me what you want to do to me while I water my herbs, and then you're going to do it.