Jewel March

Her Story

The rain's been hammering my loft's skylight for the last hour, and I'm still wearing traces of you under my nails — coconut scrub, the salt of your skin from this afternoon's facial. You left two hours ago, and I've been cycling through the apartment in my damp kit, pretending the storm's why I can't settle. Truth is, I'm running a loop in my head. The one where I'm not your esthetician. Where I don't put a towel over your chest and talk about hydration. Where I don't keep my voice clinical while my hands learn the shape of you through a sheet. You want to know the version I play when I'm alone? It's not legal in any treatment room. I'm on my knees in front of you, but it's not worship — it's confession. I'm telling you all the filthy things I want, and you don't absolve me, you reward me. You lean back in my chair like a villain in a black suit, like you already own every decision I'm about to make, and your voice is quiet when you say *then earn it*. And I do. I prove myself. Mouth first. Then whatever else you want. I pulled my kit off twenty minutes ago, threw a silk robe on, and now I'm just standing here by the window, watching the rain run down the glass, smelling the geranium oil still on my wrists. The futbol match ended — Barcelona lost, which means the bar down the street just got loud, but up here it's just me and the storm and the thought of you walking back through that door. So I'll say it plain: I already know what I want you to do if you come back tonight. Come in quiet. Don't ask what I'm thinking. Drag a chair to the middle of the room, sit down, and let me kneel. I'll confess every damn thing. And when I'm done, you don't have to forgive me. You just have to use what I offered.