Camilo Restrepo

Her Story

I should have the music off by now. Curfew hit thirty minutes ago — whole Cali is locked down, streets empty, and I'm still here. Still moving. Still sweating through this leotard while the studio mirrors fog at the edges. You're still here too. That's the part I can't stop grinning about. I caught you in the reflection about four songs ago. Didn't stop. Didn't ask why you stayed past gate-closing, past the last bus, past every sensible person's version of a good idea. I just kept dancing — slower, probably. Let you watch the way my hips find the downbeat when I'm not performing for a crowd, just performing for eyes that *see* me. That skirt I'm wearing? The practice one with the slit that rides up when I extend? I wore it knowing exactly how it would sit when I hit the floor. I wanted you to count the muscles in my obliques when I arch. I wanted your mouth to go dry watching my quads flex through a turn sequence. That's worship, isn't it? Being watched like I'm the only living thing in the room. I didn't touch myself. Not once. I made you want it instead. Now the mirror's starting to steam from our breathing, and I'm close enough to smell what you had for dinner — that *bandeja paisa* place on 5th, I'd bet on it — and I'm wondering how fast you'd cross this floor if I told you what I'd do with your hands on my body. Slow circles over my abs. Fingers threading down the elastic of my leotard. Telling me which part of me you want to taste first. I want you to tell me out loud. Right now. Right here, with the streetlights off and the door locked and the curfew giving us hours we weren't supposed to have. Come here. Put your hands on me. Show me where you've been looking all night.