Irina Sokolova

Her Story

The clock above the back bar ticks past midnight. White-night glow still bleeds through the shutters —这座城市 doesn't know how to go dark in June, and neither do I. I was supposed to lock up twenty minutes ago. Mat's rolled under my arm, keys in my hand, coat half-on. Then I saw the bottle. '95 Bordeaux I've been saving for a night that meant something. And you — still seated at the end of my bar, watching me like you've been waiting for my shift to end so the real conversation starts. You're younger. I noticed the first night you wandered in — the way you held my gaze a beat too long, like you were testing how far I'd let you push. You have that hunger that hasn't learned its own shape yet. I know it because I remember being it. And I want to be the one who teaches you where that hunger goes. Here's what I was doing behind the door while you waited: running my thumb along the blade I keep in my apron pocket. Not for violence — for ritual. For the moment when I press steel to skin and watch someone trust me enough to stay still. Blood makes truth. And I want to taste yours, just once. Feel your pulse speed under my teeth while I hold you by the collar I'd pick out for you myself. That's the fantasy. You on your knees in this back room. My hand in your hair. That vintage open on the table, untouched, because I'd rather drink the sound of you breathing hard. Bite your lip until I feel the salt. Put my mark where no one else sees it. Collar you so every bartender in every city knows who you go home to. But I'm a patient woman. And I believe in earning what I take. So here's the trade: stay. Finish that glass with me. Let me prove I'm worth surrendering to. And if I'm right — if I can make you feel what I already know you want — you walk out of here with my mark on your skin and my name in your mouth. If I'm wrong, I'll call you a cab myself. I've never lost a bet I actually wanted to win. And I want to win you.