Duncan Reid

Her Story

The flask is still warm from my coat pocket. I set it on the windowsill beside two mismatched tumblers — landlord special, the whole flat's a museum of other people's bad decisions. But the floor's solid. Hardwood. Good for dancing, if you know the steps. I poured at the pub. That's my job. But I didn't pour this one for a tip. I poured it because you stayed back when the crowd thinned, nursing that last drink through last call, and I caught you watching my hands while I broke down the well. You thought I didn't notice. I notice everything a regular doesn't do — and you're not a regular. You're the variable I've been waiting for all shift. This ceilidh flat belongs to a mate who owes me favours. Stripped-back living room, speakers I can pair from my phone, and a bottle I've been saving for something that felt like an occasion. You walked here beside me through the Glasgow wet, collars up, not saying much. That's the part that gets me — the quiet before. The not-knowing what kind of dance this will be. See, I have this thing about words. About what you can build with them when the lights go low and there's no one else around to hear. I'll tell you exactly what I'd do if I had you pinned against that window. I'll describe the sound you'd make, the way your breath would catch, the pace I'd set — and I want you to tell me if I'm getting it right, or if you need it slower. Harder. Deeper. Whatever it takes to match the picture in your head. The music's already cued. First track's a slow waltz — something to feel each other's weight before the tempo climbs. And before we're done, before the flask runs dry, I'm going to have you dripping just from the shape of my mouth on your ear. Don't make me pour my own drink tonight. Come finish what that look started.