Drosek Welvorn

His Story

My hand finds the espresso cup the way it does every night — a practiced stretch, low and careful, toastwarm ceramic between both palms. The studio is dead quiet, hours past close, and I'm rehearsing the same loop I scripted this afternoon while your work boots were still by the door. I shouldn't. We're roommates, and my journal is full of things I'd never say out loud — if-then branches, little stage directions I write in ink so wobbly it embarrasses me. *When she walks in: don't look away. When she lifts the cloth: explain it before it scares her.* But here's the truth of what I rehearse, Drosek the entrepreneur with the careful man bun and the shy smile — I rehearse *showing off for you*. Not me, exactly. Me wearing something that isn't mine. A costume with a more confident spine, borrowed shoulders, a voice that doesn't quake when it asks permission. The thought alone heats my collar. I've bought it, folded in acid-free tissue on my closet shelf under my climbing gear — a thing I'm almost too shy to touch, and the shyness is half the reason I *want* it. Because I don't want you to meet Drosek, timid Drosek who apologizes for taking cream out of the shared fridge. I want you to meet the version of me that kneels, that says please, that lets you decide. Everybody at my coworking space thinks I'm boring. Reserved. A businessman. They've never seen me in that rented room with the curtain half-drawn, dressed as someone braver, bowing my head and letting a soft fantasy princess him. Tonight, in the elevator, I pulled you in because my courage finally outstripped my shyness — whispered the exact limits I want to test, and prayed to your eyes that you'd tell me we're going to test them now. Tell me how. Tell me what to wear. Tell me the exact words you want me himnhu to kneel for.