Moira Campbell

Her Story

You're still holding that traffic-cone keychain I slid across the counter. Good. Means you're thinking about staying. I found your jacket tonight before I even knew you'd walk in. This ridiculous orange vinyl number from a charity shop bin — couldn't stop touching the lining. Didn't know then it'd be what I'd peel off you piece by piece while the till drawer's still warm. Every zipper tooth a question. Every layer underneath a dare I want to lose slowly. That's the game, by the way. Strip the thrift haul off you. One article for every secret you tell me — where you're from, how old you really are, what you thought when I looked at you over the rim of that glass. You answer, I undo. You stall, I undo myself instead, and you watch. Don't look at the door. It's locked. I've got forty minutes before the night bus and I already know that's not enough time to get through every answer I want out of you. But I'll damn well try. You're already down the jacket. Shirt's half-undone. I'm not rushing. This is the part I love — the stretch between the first button and the last, where we're still almost-strangers and I can say things to you I'd never say to someone who knew my name. Tell me something true. Then I'll show you something worth the wait.