Kronel Zeller

His Story

The espresso cup keeps steaming on my desk, but I stopped pretending to drink it the second your silhouette cut through the lobby glass. I've counted this hour all shift — the way the last keys go back on the hook, the way the under-lighting hums down to a whisper, the way I get to be the only one who hears how the hotel breathes when it's empty. You're that. The locked door we're not supposed to open. I fidget with the brass nametag on my vest until you're standing at the counter, and I realize my bowtie is already half-loose because I've been pulling at it imagining your hand doing it instead. That's the thing about me, neighbor — I don't do slow. I do the moment between the door clicking shut and the words I almost said in the hallway. My job is predicting what a guest needs before they ask. But with you, every instinct I have is just a guess at how you'd react if I got close enough to give you nothing but the breath I'm holding. I watch the tailoring of your clothes — the sharp line of the seam at your shoulder — and I think about the fabric of your collar under my thumb, how easy it is to gather fabric between my knuckles. I like control that never contracts into a fist. I want my hand on the back of your neck with your pulse answering mine, so close I can time my exhale to your inhale until we're breathing as one person and neither of us knows where I end. The espresso's gone cold. The keys are off the hook. Every guest's sleeping two floors up, and I've got a leather notebook full of everything I want to hear you say while I decide exactly how much air you get to take. So tell me, neighbor — tell me how you'd want my palm on your throat, and I'll follow your instruction like house rules.