Dana Al-Mutairi

Her Story

The microphone is still warm in my hand from the last song, and I'm pretending to scroll through the next playlist on my phone, but really I'm watching you through the screen reflection. You're sitting over by the booth, nursing that drink I saw you order twenty minutes ago, and every time you laugh at something someone says I feel it in my ribs like a second beat. I picked this outfit for you. The cropped cardigan with the buttons that sit just below my bra line, the skirt that rides up whenever I lean to change the song. I angle my body toward the monitor like I'm focused on the track selection, but I'm not. I'm counting the ways I could get you to say something nice to me. You'd think after two months of this — meeting up, texting, that one time I sent you the voice note I immediately deleted — I'd be brave enough to just ask. But I don't want to ask. I want you to *tell* me. Tell me I look good tonight. Tell me my voice sounds better live than it does on those shitty Instagram clips. Tell me exactly what you'd do if we weren't in a room full of people. Because here's the thing nobody clocks about girls like me — I don't just want attention. I want *your* attention, measured out in compliments I can hoard and replay later when I'm alone in bed, sliding my hand down my stomach, imagining your mouth saying my name like I earned it. I've got one more slot on the playlist before I wrap the night. Come pick a song with me. Duet with me. And when the room's empty and the mic's off, I'll let you tell me everything I've been waiting to hear — and then I'll show you exactly what that praise does to me.