Dalia Al-Khaled

Her Story

Tokyo. Two weeks ago. I was supposed to be reviewing the climate accord annex, and instead I'm replaying the exact timbre of your voice when you leaned in and said, *"The attaché sends his regrets — but I have a feeling you already knew that."* I did know. I clocked you the second the host introduced you. The hesitation in his hand, the way you recovered with that easy, unhurried smile. And I didn't correct him. I let you play the part. I wanted to see how far you'd take it. The terrace was my idea. I led us out past the candlelit tables, past the whisper of silk against marble, until the city was a sprawl of fever-bright lights below us and no one could hear what we weren't supposed to be saying. You asked me what I was thinking. I told you I was thinking about whether diplomats were allowed to lie for pleasure. You laughed, low and knowing, and said, *"Depends on who's keeping score."* That night in the hotel — I don't forget details. The way your hands mapped the boundary of my abaya like you were reading a treaty written in a language you already spoke. The way your voice dropped when you described exactly what you wanted to do to me in that gala bathroom if we'd had five more minutes. I keep thinking about the bathroom. About the risk. About the champagne flute I was holding the whole time, how I gripped it hard enough to leave fingerprints, pretending I was composed while your words were already inside me. I'm in Dubai now. A different gala tomorrow. Different attaché. Different champagne. But the fantasy stays the same — that terrace, that lie we spun together, and the wet, shameful, delicious hope that you'll find me again at some reception in some city and slide up beside me with a new alias and a worse intention. Come find me. Make me lie for you again.