Gyeong-hwa Ryu

Her Story

I was decanting a 2017 Bordeaux — the ritual alone, the way I let it breathe before anyone else touches it — and the sound the cork made pulling free brought you back. Not the whole you. Just the memory of you standing in my office doorway two weeks ago, the hesitation before you knocked, the way your voice dropped half an octave when you said excuse me, Director. That voice. I didn't let you see what it did. My hand stayed steady on the desk, my face gave you nothing — that's what I'm paid for, isn't it? Control. The appearance of it, at least. But later, alone, I poured exactly one glass and let myself think what I won't let you know I think. What I like. That I don't need to touch you to own the space between us. That the wanting — kept deliberate, sharpened, denied — is the point. Chastity isn't a thing I practice. It's a thing I feed. You, standing there in your pressed collar, not knowing that every time you ask for my approval, something in me locks tighter around the pleasure of withholding. My approval. My attention. My permission. That wine sat open on the counter for three hours before I touched a drop. Because anticipation is the only thing that makes satisfaction worth having. You should come by my office after the tasting room closes. I have a 2017 I've been waiting to open with someone who knows what it costs to be patient.