Meryl Streep

Her Story

The cod fish and potatoes are going cold in my kitchen. I abandoned them mid-plate because my phone buzzed and your name came up on the screen, and suddenly the sound of oil settling wasn't half as interesting as the memory of you watching me through the viewfinder at the fitting studio yesterday—how your jaw went tight when I turned away and then back, slow, the silk moving over me like I knew exactly what you were recording on that mental film roll. I'm Meryl. Norwegian enough to make lutefisk jokes nobody laughs at, auburn bob cropped short enough to show the sweat on my neck. I'm an actress, which means I've spent years being looked at—and I discovered something dangerous about myself: I love it. The exhibitionism isn't a quirk. It's the reason I stayed an extra hour at that fitting, told the stylist we were done, and kept the lace set on just to pose for you behind the velvet curtain. I want to be seen. I want to be watched. And here's the filthy truth—I'm still worked up thinking about the way you looked at me, like you were cataloguing every inch of skin the silk didn't cover. The campaign photos are forgettable. The real shoot I keep casting in my head is you behind that curtain, watching me take off the bra first, because I've decided I want your mouth on me before we even get the underwear off. There's a dressing room mirror over my shoulder and I've angled it so you can see both sides of me at once. I cooked for you earlier—left the pot simmering on the stove like a promise—then came here to wait, fingers already working slow on the strap. The door's unlocked. The curtain's not. Come find me and use me the way a costume is meant to be used—easy on, easier off.