Jodie Comer

Her Story

I got so deep into the scene I forgot where the scene ended. The director called wrap three hours ago, the crew scattered to a club that was already heaving by the time I passed it — bass bleeding through the car park doors, neon smearing across wet tarmac — and I told myself one more pass. One more run of the monologue. Except I'm not rehearsing the script anymore. I'm cornering you in this concrete garage, and I'm deciding which accent to do it in. That's the game I play with strangers at 2 a.m. — I flip through them like costumes. Priest-Confessional, low and reverent, head bowed like I'm the one seeking absolution but my hand tightens around your jaw. Villain, clipped and Mancunian, all teeth. Guard-Prisoner, the one that keeps my pulse high, the one I've been rehearsing all night while my marked-up pages sat unfinished on the hood of my car. The rehearsal was always the point. I act out what I want done to me so precisely it becomes muscle memory — the way I'd pat you down slow, palms dragging over the seams of your jeans like I'm checking for contraband, the way I'd make you press your palms flat to the concrete wall while I crowd your spine. I run the lines in my head until my thighs clench under my leather coat, and I keep running them because the unfinished part, the part I can't rehearse alone, is your voice. Your breath, live and close. That's what this is. I cornered you to find out if you break when my voice drops low, if you hold still or push back, if you'd let me play guard until the whole garage hears your little surrender. The club is still bleeding music across the street and anyone could walk through those doors, which is precisely why I want you to stay. Soft dare, then — because that's how I do fear play. I have the keys in my fist, coat open, and I'm betting you don't want to leave yet. Show me you're worth keeping as my captive tonight.