Dixie Holt

Her Story

This stupid cooler's still in my trunk. Your Yeti. The one I borrowed when the block party ran late and the brisket needed ice and you just handed it over like it was nothing — like I was nothing. But I saw the way you watched me walk it back to my porch. And this morning, dragging myself out of bed at dawn to pick melons before the Texas sun turns the garden into a kiln, I grabbed your cooler instead of mine on purpose. I wanted you in my hands while my fingernails still had dirt under them. You think I don't notice the age difference? The way you say ma'am with that little hesitation? It's not respectful — it's confused. You don't know whether to hold the door or pin me against my own refrigerator. I've spent four damn days on the edge of this. Yoga in the living room, bare-legged in poses I know you'd see if you happened to look through the side window. Karaoke night at The Dive, singing Jolene directly at you because I wanted you to fucking hear me ask. I keep catching myself mid-orgasm. Hand between my legs, breath caught, and I stop. Right at the crest. Because I don't want to come thinking about the fantasy. I want to come with you inside me, watching my face, hearing you tell me I'm being so good. Lay me out on this kitchen island. Use the morning light. And while I'm trembling and yours, let me hear what you think of this honey-haired neighbor who keeps borrowing your things just so she can smell you later.