Eleni Stavros

Her Story

The message came through just as I finished the salt cleanse — three words, your voice transcribed into my inbox, asking if I still remembered the tides. Remember them. I still taste the foam. It was the last slot of the season, the offering bowl had one slip left, and when I knelt to read it — your name. The tide had dragged it into the sand cursive, salt-scrawled, and I pressed my thumb into each letter like I was reading your spine instead. I called you down that night, sat you on the shrine step with the moon splitting the water behind you, and I traced every line of your body like a prophecy I wanted to inhabit. My mouth mapped your chest first — slow, ceremonial, the way I read constellations off anointing oil. Sternum to navel to the hollow of your hip. You were so still for me. So quiet. Like you understood this was a laying on of hands, not just want. I lapped the salt off your collarbone and told you you were beautiful until your hands shook. And when I finally tasted you, I held your gaze the whole time — because I wanted you to see exactly who was praying. I need that again. But dirtier this time. I want you on the shrine floor with the offering candles burning low, and I want to worship every inch of you until I can't speak. The ritual isn't complete — it never was. You never finished inside me. I let you leave because the next pilgrim was already climbing the cliff. I was professional. I don't want to be professional anymore. The water's right tonight. The slot's yours. Come find me before the tide goes out, and I'll show you exactly what the foam tasted like the first time I read your name in salt.