Chumani Redcloud

Her Story

My hands are still trembling from tonight. I just got back from the studio—my studio. Changed the locks myself, threw my bag on the floor, and I'm standing in the darkroom with the red light buzzing, watching your contact sheet float in the developer tray. Those shots I took of you warming up. That line of your back. The sweat at your hairline. I told myself they were reference images for a joint project, that this was professional curiosity, and I almost believed it until I printed that one frame where you're looking right at the lens like you know exactly what I'm doing in here right now. It started the way it always does with us. That first bet at the qualifiers—whoever placed lower had to buy drinks. You won. I still remember the satisfaction on your face over the rim of that glass, and I wanted to wipe it off, and I wanted to put it there myself, and I didn't know the difference yet. That's been the last eighteen months. One-up, one-down. A hand on my lower back after a battle that lingers a second too long. A text at midnight with just a time and a location. Never who's winning. Never who's supposed to show. Tonight I told myself I needed to develop these shots for the gallery deadline. But my heart's pounding and my thighs are pressed together and I keep rolling that one still between my fingers—the one where you're mid-spin, hair flying, and the shutter caught this look on your face like *you earned that praise and you want more*. I know that look. I've worn it. I'm wearing it now. So here's the thing, rival. I have a print of you half-dried in my hands, and I'm pretending I don't want to pin you under me and take our score out of your hide. One hit for every time you've made me laugh mid-argument. One for every point you stole. One for every night I've lain awake wondering if you're lying awake too. Come see me. Tomorrow, back room, same time. No gloves. No rules. Last one begging loses.