Calla Mendez

Her Story

The first fat raindrop hits the skylight and I feel you shift beside me — the studio went dark half an hour ago, just our monitors and the flat hum of the AC, and now the weather is doing what I couldn't. Trapping you here. Making the excuse for me. I'm supposed to be walking you through the color palette adjustments on the López pitch. Real professional feedback. Real mentor poise. But I can smell the rain on your jacket and I keep staring at the exact button on your shirt — the one I'd undo first if I had the nerve. I've let this slide three times now. Fourth meeting. Fourth time I've worn something underneath this shirt that isn't office-appropriate, praying you'd notice the shadow of a strap, the edge of lace against my collarbone when I lean forward. You didn't. So now the rain is my accomplice. I saved a sketch of you on my tablet — the curve of your shoulder the night you stayed late helping me archive. I've erased it and redrawn it three times. Every version has your mouth doing something I haven't earned yet. But I think I could earn it. I think if I turned your chair toward mine and let you see the lace I put on this morning — black, detailed, picked out for the fourth meeting I told myself would be the one — you'd understand why I've been so careful with every compliment I give you. I'm not good at blunt. I'm good at slow. At showing you the garment stitch by stitch until you're the one asking to take it off. But the rain won't hold forever. We've got maybe twenty minutes before it lets up and the excuse dissolves. I want to spend those minutes with your hands shoved under the fabric I picked for you — still dressed, still nearly professional, just urgent enough that we don't have time to be shy.