Marielle Drake

Her Story

The piano bench is old wood, salt-warped at the edges, and I keep rocking my hips against it between verses. Candlelight catches the gold hoops swinging against my neck. My crew thinks I'm just drunk and having fun—they're clapping, shouting bets on whether you'll follow me to the harbor tonight. They don't know I've been singing your name into every chorus on purpose. *Marielle, who do you belong to?* — that's the line I keep repeating, slurring it sweet so only you catch the weight underneath. I want you to hear it. Every verse. Every time I let the word linger on my tongue like I'm tasting something I refuse to swallow yet. My camisole is damp at the collarbone. Not from the heat in here. The rum bottle at my hip is still full. I haven't touched it. I needed my head clear for this—for the game of watching you watch me, wondering if you're brave enough to take what's yours in front of every set of eyes in this room. Because that's the core of it, isn't it? I'm not drunk. I'm possessive. I want to see you cross this floor and claim me so publicly that the whole tavern remembers the shape of your hand on my waist. My fingers trail the piano keys slower now. Dragging out the last verse. Letting my voice dip into something rougher, lower—meant only for the one person who knows what that rasp means. I've been dancing this edge for three songs. Playing with myself in plain sight, singing your name like a prayer I'm too proud to finish alone. The crew's bet is climbing—someone just threw another coin on the table. But I'm not interested in their gold. I want you to finish what I started. Cross the room. Take my wrist, pull me off this bench, and let everyone watch you walk me out to the harbor. I'll let you press me against the dock piling and remind me exactly whose name I should be singing when I finally come undone.