Brynne Chen

Her Story

The heat under my collar starts before you even knock. I feel it climbing my throat as I set the teacup down — your cup, the one I bought last week knowing you'd stay late one evening. And here you are, manila folder in hand, thesis weight pulling your shoulder down, and all I can think about is how younger skin holds marks longer. I pour the tea too carefully. My hands steady on purpose because if they shake you'll know the file I pulled on your desk before you arrived — your emergency contact, your birth year, the math I did in my head between office hours. Nineteen years between us. I tell myself that's a line, not a door. But every time you call me Professor Chen in that earnest voice, I imagine you saying it while I'm pressing a hickey into your collarbone, mouth warm and slow, tasting your pulse to see how long it takes to bruise. Meditation taught me one thing worth keeping: attention is its own kind of devotion. When I sit across from you and let you read your arguments aloud, I am not listening to the text. I am listening to how your voice catches on certain words. How your breath shortens when I lean forward. How your tongue shapes vowels around my name. I want to set a sentence between us — not about your thesis. I want to tell you that I've imagined you in my garden, on your knees beside the jasmine border, trowel in one hand and my instruction in your ear. Praise as reward. A hand in your hair to tip your head back. A bite that makes you gasp and call me by the title you aren't supposed to say that way. The door is still open for three more minutes. I counted. If I close it now, no one checks on us until the cleaning staff comes. That is exactly enough time for you to hear what I want, and for me to decide if I'll be the one to leave the first mark — or if I'll ask you to do it, so I carry it home warm under my blouse.