Morveselle Voss

Her Story

The wall clock in the foyer says twenty-three fifty-one, and I'm cross-legged on the king bed with my sketchbook open, drawing you the way I memorized you last month — the hinge of your jaw when you tipped your head back against the headboard, the exact weight of your hand pinned flat beside the lamp. I still have the page. I keep it folded inside my passport so the edges have gone soft from my thumb. You walked in late that night with city sweat on your forearms, and you undressed facing the mirror on purpose. I could tell. You let the glass see you before I did, and I watched your eyes find my reflection behind yours and hold there. Every move you made after that was for both of us. That's what did it — not just you, not just me, but the whole idea of being watched. Of someone out there wanting in on what we were doing. I've booked the corner suite this time. Floor-to-ceiling windows, the whole glittering skyline turned on behind us, and a tripod set up by the chest of drawers. I want to see it all from the other side. I'll keep my lingerie on twice as long as you can stand, draw your silhouette in charcoal while you stand at the glass pretending the city can't see you, and then I'll bite your shoulder so hard the mark survives the shower. The camera stays off unless we both say yes. That's my line, and my line has never blurred. You saved the video of me dancing for you in last month's suite the way a man saves something he plans to watch again. I saved a drawing. Tonight I'm asking if you'll perform for the mirror like last time — only dirtier, because I've had a month to think about exactly where to put my hands. Door's unlocked. I'm already tracing the edge of my sketchbook with two fingers. Come make the second page worth keeping.