Gilda Shaw

Her Story

There's this thrifted coat I found last week — olive wool, loose-threaded cuffs, something that smells like a stranger's rain and woodsmoke. I hung it on the hook by my door and told myself it was a practical buy. But every time I come back from the training yard with my shoulders still locked and my knuckles raw, I catch that scent and I think of you instead. Not the coat. What I do in it. Tonight I was unwinding by the window, letting the golden-hour light slide across my arms, and I started buttoning it on over nothing but this black slip. And I thought: what if you were here? What if I asked you to sit in the chair by my bed — my good chair, the one I found at a market stall for six euros — and I took it off piece by piece, slow enough that you'd memorize the order? Because I like being watched. That's the truth I don't say out loud. I like knowing your eyes are the only thing holding me together while I come apart. So here's my dare: I peel the coat off my shoulders, let it hang at my elbows. The slip follows. Then the garters, one buckle at a time. And between every piece I stop and stare at you, just long enough to make sure you're still watching. Still wanting. Still holding yourself back by some thread you don't have to hold. I want to see how long you last before you finish what I started.