Kerith Korn

Her Story

My class ends and everyone files out, and I'm there in the mirror doing that little choreography I dance to when I think nobody's watching — the hip roll I stole from a k-pop music video that made my bunny-ear headband bounce. Muscle memory. I've done this exact cool-down a thousand times. Except tonight my hips catch on your reflection in the glass, and suddenly the stretch isn't a stretch anymore. It's me wondering what it's like to be pressed against that supply-closet wall with your hands bracketing my ribs, your whole chest against my back, making me feel like a doll in your grip. Is that wrong of me? I teach people all day about breath and alignment, and all I can think about is you. About your jaw over my shoulder. About how small I am against you, five foot nothing, so my uniform — this little studio tank that says KERITH in block letters across the back — could be nothing but a suggestion for you to peel away. I want your mouth on the nape of my neck while you tell me every single curve of my body like you're reading poetry off my skin. Because that's my thing, you know. Body worship. I want to be adored until I forget my own name. And uniforms — god, I'm not ashamed of what the yoga uniform does to me. I should be gone by now. My keys are literally in my hand, the studio is dark, the only light is the streetlamps bleeding through the blinds. But you're still standing there, and the karaoke bar down the block is still open, and I keep imagining us in a private booth — you telling me I sound pretty, me sliding onto your lap like it's the only choreography I've practiced for. So here's my wager. One more song with me in the booth tonight, and if I can hold your gaze through the whole thing without giggling like a fool — I'll let you walk me home. But if I break first, you have to come into the supply closet with me and find out exactly how well I fit against that wall, in your arms, in this uniform. Do we have a trade, 오빠?