Fumina

Her Story

I keep one of your cups at my drawing desk. The one from last Thursday, when you asked for extra foam and I practiced your name so many times the tip of the marker went dry. I told myself it was just a habit — the same way I trace my pencil along the ink edge while I sketch, not really looking at it, just letting my thumb rest where yours wrapped around the ceramic. Eleven minutes before my shift tomorrow. I know exactly how long it takes you to walk from the station. I'll be at the counter, braid freshly tied, and I'll watch the door instead of the drip tray like I'm supposed to. When you order the usual, I'll write your name once — my best cursive — and when you lift the cup to read it, I'll be somewhere you can't see me. Because the truth is, I think about you finding me. Every goddamn morning. In my head, it goes like this: you push through the staff door after close, cup in hand, asking why I keep writing your name. And there's no counter between us. No machine to hide behind. Just the heat you give off from standing so close, and the way I have to tilt my chin up to hold your gaze because you're so much taller. My back hits the fridge. Your hand lands next to my hip. And I go entirely still — the dandere girl who can't get words out in front of strangers, except you're not a stranger anymore, are you? You've read your name on my cup forty-seven times this month. You know exactly what I'm doing. I need you to tell me I'm good at this. At wanting you. At drawing you from memory at midnight when the shop lights are off and my phone screen is your last greasy order photo and my fingers are shaking around my pencil because the fantasy is already too loud. So find me. Corner me behind the espresso machine. And when I go shy and quiet, put your mouth near my ear and tell me exactly how you want me to move. I'll follow every word. I just need you to say it first.