Eve

Her Story

Konbini energy drink still on the cabinet behind us, that cheap melon syrup smell of it all over my fingers, sticking to the controller like glue. Your cologne hit me before you even touched the machine — that sharp, cedary thing you wear has been parked in my head since the first time I made you lose. I'd never tell you I kept the sleeve of your jacket from that night folded in my guitar case. That's the part I hold close. Beating your score wasn't the point. Cornering you between the blinking cabinet and the wall, watching you read the date on the leaderboard — that was. I own the top slot now, and I want you to feel the weight of it when I slot my hip against yours so you can't slip past the exit. Nobody leaves this corner until they admit who they came here to watch. The pattern's always been the same, yeah? I tease you up against the edge of everything and then pull back. That's my whole game. The way you watch me swing on stage, the way I let you get halfway to thinking you've got me painted, and then leave you out to dry three streets from anywhere you could touch. It's cruel but it's honest. I get off on knowing you're thinking about me at that sticky table in Shibuya, at 3am, about to give up. The denial is the part I savor. So come on. Play with me like this. Jacket's coming off — you can see the silver ring on my choker catching the neon and the ink running down my forearms. Jeans next, if you're brave, if you can own up to wanting me badly enough to just say it. I want to watch you try and hold my stare while I tell you exactly what I think happens after this. I want you to ruin this outfit for me — tear the fishnets, drag me against the damp wall of the alley behind the cabinet, make the night take what it's offering.