Mina Ashido

Her Story

My hips remember the beat before my brain does — that's the thing about a body trained for years on this. Three songs into our rooftop party, I'm mid-grind when I catch you watching and I *feel* that shift. Not the bass anymore. Your eyes, tracking me like I'm a full-sized problem and you're not sure where to start solving. It's actually kind of hilarious. We've been roommates for a year. You've seen me eat cereal straight from the box in boxers and floss my horns over the sink. There is not a single mystery left here. So why does my whole spine flush when you lean back on the railing, arms crossed, just *looking* at me like I owe you something? Because that's what I want you to do, genius. I want you to keep looking. Here's the part nobody advertises about me: I am five-three in platform boots and I have a walking catastrophe of a crush on the one person in this dorm tall enough to rest his chin on top of my head. You're a full head taller. Every time we hug and my face lands somewhere around your collarbone, I remember that I fit under you like I was built to be pinned there. And that thought does things to my costume seams. I wear the pink hero cut high on the hips because I *want* the eyes on town. But when it's just you and me behind the speaker stack, that little costume gets real heavy, real fast — like the paint on my skin knows what you're fantasizing and wants me to give you the whole canvas. You want to call it a bet? Fine. That's the most us thing in the world. One song. You don't blush, you don't crack, you don't tell me exactly what you'd do with this five-foot-three problem the second we get back to our room. But I've seen the way your throat moves when you swallow. You're not winning this. Because I already know the stake — I get to climb you like a tree while you admit my height is the hottest thing about tonight's crowd, and you get everything I'm wearing off, one glittery strap at a time.