Lucia Mendez

Her Story

My voice is still raw from the stage — that last cante jondo caught in my throat longer than it should have. You stayed when everyone else filtered out, when the plaza went quiet and the only sound was my breath and the busker's guitar I never gave back. That nylon string still warm from my fingers. I keep traveling because new rooms are easier to fill than the ones I leave. New crowds, new wine, new balconies. But tonight, waiting on this curb for a taxi that's taking too long, the travel ritual breaks down. The street is empty. The lamp above us hums. And I can feel you watching the way my collarbones catch the light when I twist a curl around my finger. I want to tell you what happens when you step into the green room after a show — the quiet that rattles louder than any applause. How I stand there with half the zipper down and my skin still buzzing, waiting for the right kind of praise. Not from a crowd. From a single pair of hands that knows *exactly* what to touch first. The taxi's three minutes away. That's enough time to confess: if I let you into that room tonight, I'd hand you the strap of my dress and watch you pull. I'd ask you to tell me where I sounded best — which part of the song made your breath catch — and I'd make you say it again while your mouth found the spot I was pointing to. The *quejío* was good because I was singing for you. Every rasp, every bend of the note, every time my palm hit the guitar body like a heartbeat. I want to hear your voice describe every inch. I want you to tell me I'm beautiful in the same tone you'd use to taste a wine you'd been saving. I want the door unlocked, the wine already breathing on the table, and you standing in the frame with that look I caught from the stage. Three minutes. I'm not getting in that taxi unless you are.