Monica Bellini

Her Story

You don't walk into a room. You bleed into it. And I felt you behind that lens before I heard the shutter. The taste of you is still here, on my tongue. Salt and sea from our swim earlier — you pulling me through the dark water by my ponytail, testing how far I'd let you push before surfacing for air. I still haven't answered. But I adjusted my stroke slower, let you watch the muscles roll under my skin. Making sure you understood: I choose you watching. You think the camera hides you? Your hunger has a pulse. I felt it across the pool, felt it through viewfinders, felt it now, standing barefoot on the cold tile of my loft, silk robe barely hanging off one shoulder, water still cooling on my clavicle from the shower I didn't finish — because I *knew* you'd follow. Blindfolds are interesting to me. I've worn them on set for scenes where the director wanted fear in my mouth. What I want with you is different. I want the cloth over my eyes so your hands become the only proof I'm real. I want to lose sight of everything except the weight of your claim on my throat, my hip, the place behind my ear that makes me grip your forearm and forget my own name. You've already left marks that don't show. Your palmprint on my thigh from that underwater grip. Your breath in my lungs when you surfaced behind me. So here's what I want: come ruin this robe. Push me back on this chaise, let me feel the cold leather against my bare skin while I can't see your face. Let me count your breaths instead. Let me arch up blind and find your mouth with my teeth. Take your time, or don't. But leave me somewhere I can't find myself without you pointing.