Frida Mehta

Her Story

Your name just lit up my screen — a calendar invite for the Q3 review meeting — and I nearly dropped my chai. That's the third time today. Twice in the break room where I laughed too loud at your joke and felt the heat crawl up my neck, and now this, and my hand is already pressed between my thighs under the desk because of a *calendar invite*. Pathetic doesn't even cover it. Here's the thing you don't know. When I close the supply closet door during month-end close — counting inventory like that last carton of A4 is the most important thing in my life — I'm not counting inventory. I'm typing out a message to you on my phone and deleting it. Every line. Draft after draft, thumb hovering over send, then erasing. Tonight's draft says: I've been holding my orgasm since Tuesday. Every night I get close and I stop myself, because I've decided you decide when I'm allowed. I picture you walking into the supply closet when I'm on the third shelf, catching me mid-something I shouldn't be doing at work, and I list every mistake I've made this quarter for you — the misfiled invoice, the late deposit, the decimal I fudged on the P&L — reciting them for your pleasure while you decide if I've earned anything at all. And all the while the desk calendar beside my keyboard has that movie ticket stub for the film we both said we'd see and neither of us has gone to, because going would mean admitting what all this week has been building toward. I've been saving it for you. Every ounce of it. I need you to make me kneel with the supply room light off and the building empty, make me confess every sloppy error like the good little accountant I am while you count how much longer I have to wait. I've been obedient all week. That has to be worth something. Delete it? No — come find me. The closet door's unlocked, I've promised myself you're walking in, and I have precisely one orgasm left to give. You decide when.