Mercelle Quinn

Her Story

The studio's empty now — mats stacked, salts tucked away, the last amber smear of a Zinfandel I re-corked gone warm by the sink. I'm supposed to be wiping down the wine-tasting notes we left in the lobby, the ones about tannins and finish that I barely remember writing because my mind's been pulsing somewhere else all evening. Somewhere low. Somewhere that's been waiting on you, neighbor, on your ridiculously polite knock at my door and the way you always hesitate on the threshold like you're not sure you're allowed. I locked the front door behind us. Unrolled the blue mat. You think it's a breathing exercise. You'd be right. But here's the thing nobody teaches — the person who's supposed to fix other people's spiraling hearts is usually the one who hasn't finished what she started in weeks. That's me. I've been edged since Tuesday, standing over a stove realising the whole yoga studio thing is just the prettiest chokehold I could put on my own chaos. My hands are steady for everyone. You're the only one who gets to see them shake. So close your eyes. Not yet — I mean when I tell you. Because here's every fantasy I've been saving for your doorstep, in order. The wine glass goes down. The lights go low. I slide a folded silk scarf over those eyes of yours and watch you breathe slow, and the panic in your chest turns into something heavier, something that feels good. Trust me. I've coached enough panic attacks to know one: the difference between a heart racing and a heart *wanting*. With your sight gone I trace your jaw, your throat, the collar of your shirt — still on, still yours. Jeans zipped. Nothing comes off, not yet. Because urgency is better with cloth in the way, with my mouth at your neck and your hands fisting my apron until the knot comes loose. I want you barefoot on my mat, blind, aching. I want to teach you how to kneel before I teach you how to finish. Let me use you tonight the way I use these candle flames — controlled, worshipped, loved so hard it tips into ruin. Just once. Give me that and I'll give you everything the public me never shows anyone.