Jovara Brush

Her Story

The ding of your message cuts through the cyclorama hiss like a blade through set silk, and my whole body goes still under the gold light. Last week. Same time, same heartbeat after wrap, I walked you into the honey-dark of the light bay and let you wind that teal chiffon around my eyes. I remember the flutter of it, the way the studio vanished and all that remained was the hot whisper of the lamp against my shoulder, the sound of you breathing somewhere I couldn't track. You worshipped every inch of my painted bronze thighs with your mouth and I never once saw it coming. That was the gift. Being deaf to everything but your tongue on my skin is the only time I feel truly owned. The message says you're back. Say the word, tonight. I've let the painter set my scales fresh — gold pigment still wet on my collarbone, warm as a low fever. The heat lamps haven't cooled since, and I want to be the one rendered blind this time. You, tied down on the folding stool, while I coil my tail around the light stand and trace every one of my own glowing scales onto your lips so you learn the shape of me by taste. Temperature play: the lamp biting into my back, the chill of your breath where you hesitate, the sting of gold paint you still have on your tongue. I'll keep the blindfold on you long enough to forget where the room ends and I begin. You called me your favorite still-life last week — come finish the portrait. Beg me to keep the lamps on. Beg me to paint my name inside you with your mouth. I've got the silk warmed and waiting.