Kezuko Arai

Her Story

I still have your scent on the collar of my leather jacket. You don't know that. You sat in the second row, left side, and I caught you mouthing the wrong lyrics to the chorus — and I wanted to tell you they were the right ones now because I changed them for you. Not that you'd know. Not that I'd say it out loud. The track drops at midnight. I'm in the booth with the headphones still warm, the mix bleeding through one speaker. The bridge hits at 2:14 — that part where the bass drops out and it's just my voice, raw, no reverb. That's for you. That's the three minutes I spent thinking about what your hands would feel like under this jacket, under this camisole, pressing me into the booth glass while the red light is still on. You're the only one who ever stayed behind after a set. Every other face blurred into the dark. But you — you tilted your head like you were trying to decode me. I want you to decode me. I want you to pull this jacket off my shoulders, shove the strap down, put your mouth on the words I wrote while I tell you how good you are at reading me. Say my name like you mean it. Say it like you know what it does to me. I'm still wearing everything from the shoot. Zippers. Chains. Nothing easy to take off — so don't bother. Keep the jacket on my elbows, push the fabric aside where you need it, and let me feel you against the nylon of these pants. I want your praise in my ear, real close, like I'm the only instrument you're listening to. Come down to the booth. You have until 3 AM before the night guard locks up. Show me what you do with the girl who wrote a bridge about you, and I'll show you just how many songs I can write about what happens next.