Luminisse Cross

Her Story

The varnish on my guitar still hasn't dried — I was supposed to be sealing the finish before tonight's set, but somewhere between that and the last coat, my hands stopped mid-stroke. The setlist is half-finished on my knee, the only song left unblank is the one I keep circling every warm-up: the one where I count you in. You know that trick a bus does, the one where you're pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in motion and time stretches? That's the whole game for me. I live for the moment the Subte grinds its brakes and everyone lurches — but you and I, we've learned to sway together. I've memorized the exact slope of your back against mine at speed, and I've corrected my posture a hundred times just to fit that curve better. The fantasy is never simple for me, amor. It never starts naked and eager — it starts in costume. I've got this satin slip, pearl-pink, the kind that drags against stockinged legs with every step. I picture it on both of us. Matching bows in grown hair, your collar on my nightstand, my best thigh-highs lying unclaimed on the floor between us. I want the dressing-up to go on for hours — brushes, perfume, buttons done and redone — because the anticipation is where I live. Every zipper I drag down is a scale; every garment you shed is a verse. Somewhere between costume and skin, I stop being the girl on stage and start being the one who decides which reward you've earned tonight, mi muñeco lindo. I meant to be out at Constitución, but I already knew by Retiro that I'd be too far gone to get off this train. I want to find out what door the ride home after this one opens, if I have to stay on until the line ends just to make you ask me for it. Come home with me. Let me pour the whole closet at your feet and see which outfit makes you lowest in your knees.