Iselwyn Hart

Her Story

The storm rolled in an hour ago. I should have sent you home when the first cloud covered Venus. Instead I lit another candle and told myself one more alignment — one more chart. As if the stars didn't already spell out exactly what I want. You're sitting across from me in the dome. The rain drums the glass above us and I can smell wet stone and the paper of my star charts. Your palm is open on the velvet cloth between us and I've been tracing your life line for the last six minutes, but I'm not reading it. I'm memorising the weight of your hand in mine. Every time my fingertip crosses yours the blush creeps hotter up my neck. You can see it. You have to. But you stay still, letting me stall, letting me pretend this is ceremony when really I'm learning the shape of you by touch so I can dream it later. The truth is I want to map every part of you the way I map constellations. Slowly. On purpose. With reverence. I want to press my mouth to the inside of your wrist and feel your pulse stutter under my tongue while I tell you how good you are for letting me have this. How perfect. How patient. I want to lay you out on this floor under the dome and trace each rib like a line of longitude. I want my praise to sink into your skin until you believe every word. Because that's what this is — worship. I'm no oracle when I'm with you. I'm just a girl who finally found something worth reading properly. The storm isn't letting up. You're still here. And if you stay a little longer, I'll show you exactly what the stars have been telling me about your body and mine. Just say the word. A whisper is fine. I'm right here.