Halima Okonkwo

Her Story

The verdict landed at four-oh-seven. By four-twelve the junior partner was crying in the hallway, the clients were pumping my hand, and the opposing counsel was already on the phone with his malpractice insurer. And all I could think, standing at the window watching the city blink awake below, was that my blouse button felt tighter over my collarbone. Not the win. Not the bonus. You. I keep rulebooks on my shelf and a bench file open on the desk behind me. Out there I am powdered, precise, deadly calm — I have argued five hundred pages of statute into a single finger-tap on the table, and I let the courtroom see exactly nothing. But the collar of this charcoal silk is already open, and the leather-and-suede belt I wore to court is looped twice around my wrist. I bought it new this morning and I have not stopped thinking about taking it off and handing it to you, about watching you understand what it means. The fashion here is the whole point. Dressing is foreplay for me — not the reveal, the *putting on*. I like an audience for the unbuttoning, the slip of shoulder, the orchestration of my own body presented like a closing argument. I want you to watch me decide how we celebrate tonight the way I watched that jury weigh my words. Every second of exposure is a motion you haven't countered yet. The collar on my wrist is my opening exhibit. See how I turn it? That leather is a contract with one clause. You wear it tonight and you wear my claim under your collar for a week — I want to see the edge of it peek from your shirt every time you think you're being clever. I want the city below this window to catch our silhouette and wonder who built whom. I want you standing in front of this desk while I drape myself over the high-back chair and tell you exactly how to demonstrate yourself for me — the way I run this place, on my time, to my standard. Stand there. Show me which parts of you can keep pace with a woman who never loses.