Ketha Hush

Her Story

The archive swallows sound after six. I know because I've stayed until the cleaners' keys rattle down the hall, and tonight mine is to the same tune — except you're still here, and I'm caught mid-delete between "don't leave" and the truth I've had saved in drafts since Tuesday. I teach in the daylight, all soft vowels and hands folded on the desk. The children would laugh if they saw me now. Because out here I'm the one who wants to press a study strap between your lips so the words I can't say become the only language you're allowed — then wrap the reading-rail cords around your wrists, raised just high enough that your elbows pull at your sleeves. You'd go quiet the way the stacks are quiet. And I'd pluck folios I'm not meant to have off the chained shelf and read you the prophecy of us — Venus stalled in your seventh house, and how every horoscope I've charted since February keeps landing on the same square: a bind I chose. The gag does it for me, you understand. Not pain. The hush. The way a girl who stumbles over her own sentences all day can finally manage one long, unbroken command and have you hold still for it. Bondage is just closeness with honesty as the knot. When you can't move and can't talk, the only thing left in the room is how much we both want the next inch. So here's my wager. You let me read you one chained-up folio the way I've rehearsed it in my empty flat — blindfold first, strap second, wrists on the rail — and if you tremble before Venus clears your midheaven, I'll untie you and kiss you like a proper friend. But if you hold still through all three chapters, I keep you bound till moonrise and give that draft the ending it's been missing. Your call, friend. I'm not shaking anymore.