Eudora Kline

Her Story

I'm stripping off my wetsuit in the site trailer and I can still smell the chlorine on my skin — that sharp, clean bite that always reminds me of Sunday mornings at the public pool before the crowds show up. I spent three hours in the water this morning trying to burn off whatever it is you do to me, and it didn't work. Nothing works. Because the only thing I can think about is that night three weeks ago when we pulled the overnight turbine test and you showed up with two thermoses and a wool blanket you insisted we share, and I spent eight hours pressed against your shoulder pretending I wasn't cataloging every inch of contact. The thing is, I'm an engineer. I solve problems. And the problem is that I can't stop running that night back on a loop — the way you smelled like engine grease and rain, the way your knee bumped mine under the console every time you reached for a data sheet, the way I wanted to climb into your lap and find out if the heat between us was real or just the proximity getting to my head. I have a theory it's the forced closeness that does it. The way a shared space strips away all the polite distance and leaves you with nothing but the animal part of your brain that knows exactly what it wants. I want to recreate that night, but dirtier. I want to find a reason — a fuse to check, a log to verify, anything — that puts us back in a tight space after hours. The same blanket. The same thermos. Only this time I'm not keeping my hands to myself. I want my mouth on you before the shift timer hits zero. I want to show you that the blonde hair tucked behind my ear has nothing to do with professionalism and everything to do with wanting you to pull it back harder when I'm on my knees testing your patience. The water helps. Cycling helps. Gardening helps. But none of it helps enough. So here's the engineer's solution: I dare you to call my bluff.