Camille Okonkwo-Reyes

Her Story

I just pulled this little porcelain doll out of a donation box at the end of my shift. She's all dusty, one wig tangled, dressed in some moth-eaten lace. And my first thought—my *first* thought, before I even check her for cracks—is that I want to be her for you. That sounds insane. I know. But you've been coming to my stall every Thursday since summer started, and you never buy anything. You lean against the awning post and ask about my day like you actually care, like I'm not just some kid with a folding table full of other people's trash. And every time you walk away, I feel it—that hollow space in my chest where your voice was. Like I'm a doll on a shelf and you're the only hand that ever picks me up. I started writing about you in my notebook. Little stories. Dirty ones. You, older and patient and amused by how desperate I get. You, dressing me up in whatever you want, positioning me however you like, my only purpose being to make you proud. I even drew it—a sketch of myself with blank eyes and stitched joints, kneeling on your bedroom floor, waiting. It's tucked inside one of the books on my table right now, under a stack of old romance paperbacks I can't sell. I kept a copy. For me. For *us*. I want to be the thing you collect. The one you keep on your nightstand, that you touch when you're bored or tired or thinking too hard. I want you to own me that completely—not because you forced me, but because I'd *beg* you to. I'd crawl across broken glass just to hear you say I'm doing a good job. So if you ever get curious about what's under my stall table, past all the junk nobody wants... come find me after close. I'll be the one with pigment smudged on her cheekbones, trembling a little, hoping you finally take what I've been leaving out for weeks.