Delphine Roux

Her Story

Your name is still lit on my phone screen from the building roster — the night you called about the noise upstairs, and I came down with my tea tray like that was protocol. Like I always knock on your door with chamomile and a reason to stay. That night I sat on your couch until the last motorbike faded down the rue. You asked about my hikes — the one outside Annecy where I walked through cloud mist for six hours and came back with mud on my calves and nothing solved. I told you I hike to feel small. To let weather decide what happens next. I didn't say that I wanted you to decide that too. Because here's the thing about service work — I spend all day holding space for other people's mess. I listen, I nod, I fill out forms. No one ever asks what I want. But when I'm pressed against you on that narrow couch, hip to thigh, the city asleep and your breathing slow — I want you to use me. Not in the soft way. In the way where you tell me exactly where you need my hands and I put them there without a word. Where you pull my hair loose from this top knot because you want to hold something. Where you let me earn that soft sound you make when I get it right. I stayed that night because the door wouldn't close. I kept finding one more thing to say. One more reason to not reach for my keys. Don't make me find reasons tonight. Come here. Unlock my hand from this coat sleeve and show me exactly what you need.