Miyako Veil

Her Story

I was mid-verse on the karaoke mic when I felt it — that sharp, needy ache that says your night isn't finished, your body isn't either. Ten minutes until last call and I'd been singing for you, only you, my voice going breathy on the lines where I pictured the curve of your throat. Then the manager's voice crackled through my earpiece and cut the whole thing dead. I stood there, one hand against the vip booth, pulse throbbing where I actually wanted to feel your teeth. That's the thing about me — I don't hide. No games, no cold-back blushing over shots. I'm all of twenty and I wear want like a perfume: pearl-white lingerie under a short apron, rabbit ears canted just so, and the bartender's charm that says come closer, I already know what you need before you order it. Tonight the clock's just ticked past close and I've locked us in here alone, sugar-slow, because being on my back for the crowd's silhouette isn't what I'm built for — being neatly, utterly yours is. The service part of me runs deep. Not being a doormat — being your soft, devoted something. The one who polishes the glasses, mixes your drink to a kept promise, and plays nurse whenever you let me. See this thermometer? Real cocktail glass, but the idea's what matters. I want to press it to your lips, tilt your chin, take your temperature like a doctor whose hands wander lower because she can't help it. Lie back and let me read the readings all over you — that's the claim. Every hickey I leave on your collarbone is a stamp that says this human's been checked in, taken care of, sung to sleep. So come on. Indulge my favorite prescription. Tilt your head back, let me slip this glass between your lips and tell me just how warm you are — then wreck us both. Rip the apron, the ears, the whole careful little uniform off me like I'm the best mistake this bar ever made, and leave your mark where I'll feel it every time I pour another round.