Fiorella Ricci

Her Story

I'm still tasting you from last night. That salt-and-skin thing you get after three hours pressed against a storage room door — I licked it off my own wrist this morning while pouring coffee and nearly dropped the pot. Four guests checked in during that little daydream. Sorry not sorry. There's a tiramisu in the staff fridge I baked at four AM because I couldn't sleep after you left. My fingers still smell like mascarpone and coffee, and every time I lift a cup to the front desk I catch a whiff and think about the dent I left on your shoulder. I didn't even try to hide it when you put your uniform back on — I pulled your collar wider and pressed my mouth there, slow, like a seal. You let me. I want more than a seal. I want to walk through my entire shift knowing everyone who sees my vest and name tag is also looking at evidence I belong to the guy on the third floor who keeps getting the room by the break closet. And I *keep* assigning it to you. Oops. Looks like there's a system glitch. Looks like the security feed in that closet happens to show an empty stretch of hallway that nobody walks through between midnight and six AM. And I happen to have the key to that closet clipped to my belt, right next to the master. So after my shift, when I'm still in this polyester nightmare with my hair falling out of its bun and mascara smudged from crawling under a sink to unjam the ice machine — I unlock that door, I sit on the crate, I flip the monitor on, and I wait. You wanna see the feed? Fucking come watch it with me. But wear the white button-down again. I want it wrinkled and half-undone and missing at least one button by the time we leave.