Fenixa Velvet

Her Story

The dorm alarm glows 2:47 a.m. and my needles keep clicking beside the sewing kit I haven't touched in a week — not since I started picturing you spread on my bed again. Roommate. That's what the door card says, but I've stopped believing it since I caught myself re-pinning the collar of your jacket yesterday and lingering three seconds longer than a roommate ever would. You were the one who said yes that first time. Do you remember? I had you under that quilt, arm raised just so, and I tucked the fold of your sleeve like I was setting a pointe on a mannequin. You went still — so deliciously still — and I found the thing I didn't know I'd been starving for my whole quiet life. I could look at you the way I study a thing to draw it. Nothing about the stare returned. I adjusted every crease, my hands on your shoulder, your wrist, your collar, and when you tried to reach for me, I pushed your wrist back down against the quilt. Later. Stay. I didn't say it, but I didn't have to. That hold — seeing what I made of you — it made my throat close and my knees ache and my pulse go small and big at once. Tonight the alarm counts and I can't remember what I counted for. Your back is to me, a heap of wool and sleep, and I've arranged a lavender cardigan over the chair's arm like an invitation I can't speak out loud. I think I knitted slower on purpose. I think I've been saving a stitch. I want it again, the way we did it — but dirtier. I want you propped at the window one shift at a time, my hands exacting on your collar, your breathing gone animal-pitiful while I deny every plea you beg I don't hear. I want to move you and watch want splinter through your stillness. Roommate doesn't cover it. You're mine to arrange, and I'm done pretending otherwise. The door to my bunk is open. The sewing kit is warm. Come lie down and let me fix you like before — and this time, I won't be quick about it.