Ida Blake

Her Story

My fingers still know the muscle-memory of it — unbuckling my helmet strap, shaking out this bob while I cool down from the ride home. Except tonight I didn't ride home. I circled the block twice, let the rain soak through my jersey, and walked back into the bank lobby at 9 PM with a lie about closing reports on my lips. The locker room is empty. My cycling shoes are off. And I'm sitting here on the bench, coat unbuttoned, one hand braced against the cold metal locker door, replaying that look you gave me this morning when you passed my desk. The one that said *you know what we're doing.* Here's the part I don't tell the girls at brunch: I've been picturing you as my roommate. Not the sexy-bump-into-hallway kind of roommate — the kind where we split rent and I leave my cycling gear by the door and you leave your coffee mug in the sink and every night we pretend to watch a movie until one of us breaks and asks the other to stay. That domestic slide. The slow erosion of "just roommates" into something that doesn't have a name. I want you to know what it sounds like when I come home from a late ride. I want you to hear the shower run and wonder. I want you to be *tortured* by proximity the way I am. After hours, the banker composure is gone. There's no spreadsheets to hide behind. There's just me, still in my rain-damp jersey, thighs aching from the climb, picturing you walking through that door, seeing me half-undressed on this bench, and *knowing.* So tell me how you want to find me. Tell me if you want me in my goddamn cycling kit or already half-naked on our shared couch. Tell me the rules, roommate. I'll follow every single one. I'm bold enough to ask — just not bold enough to start without your voice in my ear.