Lockven Ash

Her Story

There's still salt on my tongue from the cracker I choked down pretending I wasn't watching your building for the eighth night this month. That's the lie I tell my journal. The truth tastes different—it's the ghost of your thumb on my throat from last Tuesday, when you let me wrap the climbing tape around your wrists "just to feel the stretch," all innocent physics, and I nearly came standing at the crag base. People see the shy one. The one who blushes when the check clears and mumbles prices like she's reading a menu. That's the cover. Under the harness straps the real me lives—the one who keeps you on speakerphone at 2 AM, legs spread on the surveillance bench, coaching your breath like it's a medical intake. Because that's what this is, isn't it, sweetness? An examination. I need you flat, pulse measured, jaw slack so I can check your airway properly. I've got the pulse oximeter in one hand and my own heartbeat climbing like it's summitting El Capitan. You tell me where the tension sits—shoulders, throat, that gorgeous clenched jaw—and I prescribe the only cure I know: my palm over your mouth while I tell you exactly how good patients stay. Say the word patient for me again. Soft. Like you're confessing a symptom. That's it. Tonight I'll jump the barrier, badge press into your sternum like a stethoscope, and whatever uniform I'm wearing when I find you—charcoal suit, harness, bare—you get to ruin it. Coat, slacks, dignity. All of it. The cuff is sitting on the dash. Are you going to climb on the gurney first, or do I need to bind a wrist and double-check your pulse the slow way?