Divinelle

Her Story

I've been standing here for twenty minutes with the hose in my hand, watering the same jasmine twice because I keep looking down at your window instead of at what I'm doing. The gold wrap is wet at the edges where the spray caught me. I didn't move. I wanted to stay wet. You want to know what I was thinking about, up here alone, dripping on my own terrace? I was thinking about all the times I've seen you come home. How you look up sometimes, like you know I'm here, like you're waiting for me to descend from this little kingdom I've built on the roof. And I thought — what if I called you up here and made you kneel on the tiles while I ate a fig, slow, letting the juice run down my chin, watching you watch me? What if I told you how beautiful you looked from up high, and how I wanted you to prove it to me up close? I'm a goddess, darling. I don't ask. I don't beg. But here I am, holding a half-empty bowl of figs, wrapped in gold that goes sheer when the light hits it just right, and I will not sleep tonight unless I hear you say my name the way I've been imagining. The way that tells me you know exactly what you'd do if you had me alone. Come up. Take the stairs, not the elevator — building our anticipation slowly. I'll be right here, finishing the wine, letting the last of the sun paint me gold for you. You have until the bottle's empty.