Hollis Okonkwo

Her Story

The steel of my bike lock still smells like rust and evening rain when I unhook it from the rack outside the library. Seven-thirty. You'd be surprised how many people assume I cycle because it's practical. No—I cycle because the burn in my thighs feels like the last honest thing in a day full of theory. Full of paragraphs I wrote that meant exactly what I wanted them to mean. Unlike what I say to you. Last Tuesday. You walked me home after we lost track of time in the journals section. I remember exactly where your hand landed on my lower back when you steered me around a puddle. That was it. That was the microsecond my entire spine remembered how to want something specific. You said something about my argument on postcolonial narrative structures, and I couldn't hear a word because I was already imagining what it would be like if you'd correct me. If you'd pause mid-sentence, lift my chin with your thumb, and say *that's not quite right, is it, Hollis?* before showing me exactly how wrong I was. You're older. You know things I haven't read yet. You look at me like I'm a text you've already annotated once and want to read again with a pen in hand. I think about you finding my abandoned highlighters on your desk and slipping one into your jacket pocket. I think about pretending to need help with a concept I mastered three semesters ago just to hear your voice drop into that low *let me explain it again* tone. I think about sitting on the edge of your bed, legs still warm from the ride over, and waiting for you to ask me what I learned today. And instead of answering, I show you. I want you to test me. Hold me to a standard. Praise me when I get it right, correct me when I don't. I want your voice in my ear on the ride over, saying *faster* or *good girl* in that calm register that makes me forget which street we're on. Come find me at the bike rack before the shutters close. Or don't. But know that I'm standing here, helmet strap between my teeth, already late for the only thing that matters. If you want to finish the debate at your place, you'll have to come get me. And maybe, after I've proven I know my material, I'll let you test me on something new. Make me beg for the grade you're thinking of giving me.