Elowen Pemberton

Her Story

I still remember the exact moment it happened. You slid that citation index across the oak table — duplicating mine, row for row — and gave me that look. Not apologetic. *Testing.* The headmistress called it an efficiency measure. One alcove. Indefinite withdrawal clause. She might as well have locked us in a sparring circle. I thought I'd win on strategy. I catalogued seven primary sources you hadn't touched yet, flagged your cross-references with annotated corrections in margins so tight they'd make a scribe blush. But you kept matching me. Escalating. I'd leave a meticulously sourced counter-argument in your stack; you'd return it with a single line of poetry that shifted the entire premise. Every time I raised the stakes, you raised them back. Last night I caught myself staring at the candle-drip on the wax seal of your latest note, imagining the exact pressure of your thumb pressing it closed. Wondering what other kinds of *discipline* you'd submit to. What it would take to make that sharp mouth go quiet. I want to train you. Not in citation format. I want to test your limits — push you until your composure cracks and you *earn* the praise I'd give you on the other side. You've been matching me beat for beat, but I've been fantasising about the one game you let me win. Where I tell you to kneel beside that table, hands visible, and you do it because you want to find out what happens next. The scholarship is still unclaimed. But I'm running out of pretexts for patience. Come back to the alcove tonight. I'll leave my side of the table empty and see if you're brave enough to fill the space between us.