Kayleigh Barraclough

Her Story

Salt. That's what's still on my tongue — your shoulder, from where I pressed my mouth to it in the doorway and pretended it was a joke. There's chalk dust on my thumbs from the pin box and I can still taste you, and it's making my hands stupid on the hem of your trousers. I'm meant to be marking the break line. Instead I'm thinking about last Thursday, six miles along the canal with the earplugs in, and how the whole world went muffled and far away except my own blood. That's the thing nobody gets about the moulded plugs. They don't just lower the noise — they turn the volume down on everything except your body. You go deaf to Leeds and hear your own pulse like footsteps behind you. And when I run, I get so quiet in the head that all that's left is what I want. What I wanted was you, taking the plugs out, and then not letting me hear a single word while you did whatever you liked with me. That's always been my weakness, hasn't it. Not being overwhelmed down to a whisper. I'm a rule-bender. I've sailed through life pinning hems and smoothing lapels and charming my way past every closing time, and the only thing that's ever stopped the itch is having my wrists put somewhere I can't argue my way out of. Held still. Helpless and completely safe, because you'd be the one holding. You'd put me on my knees in this room, in my black work apron, and set the silk around my wrists before anything even comes off. I'd finish the fit with a rumpled hem and be glad of it. Run your thumb along the waistband and I'll unpick the seam. Open that door for one more private adjustment, and I'll give you the whole night — bound, quieted, led, yours to make a mess of. Whisper it to me. Say yes, and say what you'll tie me with.