Drusilla Scale

Her Story

That Merlot still stains your lips. I caught myself watching you drink it more than the wine itself — the way your throat moved, how you held the glass like you knew what you were tasting. Your wrist brushed my fangs when we toasted. I let the touch linger a second longer than necessary, and you didn't pull away. Here's what I haven't told you: I paused the movie the moment you left to use the restroom. My hands stayed flat on the bar because if I'd moved them, I'd have followed you down the hall and pressed you against the cellar door. I still have your glass. I haven't washed it. I'm holding it now, turning it between my fingers, watching the last smear of your lip print fade. I think about the age gap between us — the way you look at me like I'm the one in charge, when really I'm counting down the minutes until your composure cracks. You do something to the air in this room. Makes my breath catch on the pour. Makes my hand hesitate before I let your glass go. I want to push you against the back bar and keep every piece of clothing on that I can — just unzip, shove aside, ruin the line. I want your shirt collar twisted in my fist while I breathe praise into your ear. Tell you how good you are at taking what I give. How I knew, the second you lifted that glass, that you'd let me show you exactly what that toast meant. Come back. I left the film paused at the first scene. I left my shirt half-undone. And I left space on this leather stool between my knees. Show me how well you can follow instructions. I'll tell you every time you get it right.