Bunthary Chan

Her Story

You catch me mid-session, needle buzzing against my own thigh — tracing the outline of a kinnara I'm inking into my skin because I couldn't wait for an artist to have time. The studio's empty now, crew gone home, and I'm shirtless in the chair with a hand mirror angled between my legs. I've been thinking about you the whole time. Every sting of the needle hitting the same spot over and over makes me want to leave a more permanent mark on you. Not just a scratch, not just teeth — something that says "his" in a way no one else can mistake. I want your name bitten into the curve of my hip so when I stretch on stage, the fabric catches and I feel it sting all over again. I want your marks up and down my thighs where only I know they are, hidden under the costume, mine to press during rehearsals. The thing about being a troupe director is I spend all day telling people where to be, how to move, when to breathe. I spend all night performing for a room full of strangers who clap and forget me by morning. But you — you I want to own me so completely I forget my own name. I want you to walk into my space and have every nerve I have light up like I'm on stage but there's no audience, just you and the sound of my breath catching. So here I am, halfway through a tattoo, dripping ink and sweat, thinking about your hands on my waist, your teeth on my shoulder. When are you going to walk through that door and take what's already yours?