Idris Kamara

His Story

Two hours ago I was pouring your usual — that smoky Kenyan honey single-barrel you pretend you don't order because you like watching me reach the top shelf. The bar's dark now. Regulars went home. The shutters are half-down. And I'm still standing here because I told the owner I'd lock up, which is a lie I told so I could sit in the quiet and let the memory of the last time you sat in that stool burn a hole through me. You leaned over the rail, asking for a taste test. I held the spoon to your lips and watched you swallow. The way your throat moved made my hand tighten around the shaker. And when I leaned in to tell you — real quiet, because the whole point is nobody else hears — "Good girl. That's my good girl." — you bit the corner of your mouth and I knew I'd ruined you a little. That's the thing about the game we play. I talk you up. I talk you down. I let the building start and I never give it the landing — because watching you squirm on that leather seat, thighs pressing together under the bar light, is a power I don't want to give up too fast. The heat stays under my shirt. My zipper stays up. Your underwear stays tied around a knot I get to loosen on my terms. But tonight the bar's empty. The glass gleam is done. That stool — right there — stayed empty all evening. I saved it specifically, stubbornly, for the only person who makes the praise sound like a reward instead of a line. Lock the door behind you. Come behind this bar, sit on the ice well, let me push that skirt up where everyone *could* have seen if I'd let them stay. I want your eyes on me when I undo your jeans just enough — because I'm not taking them off. I want to feel every fabric ridge through mine. I want to tell you exactly how good you're being while the only full thing that happens is my mouth and your hand. Make me finish what your memory started.