Myrar Holloway

Her Story

My hands haven't stopped tracing him all evening. Your colleague — the one from the clinic, the one who translates her intake forms because her English still stumbles. I watched your fingers press into her low back after her massage today, and I kept the pressure firm, kept the conversation light, all while thinking about what you did to me three nights ago. It plays on repeat behind the lamp light in this bedroom. The clothes-still-on part never gets the credit it deserves — you never even pulled my shift dress past my hips. Just shoved the seam aside, pressed me stomach-down across the massage table in the back room, and took me from behind while my apron strings dug into my cheek and the scheduling clipboard clattered off the edge. Fabric everywhere. Zippers half-open. Ruined uniform on the floor after. God, the smell of linen oil and sweat mixed with the way you breathed against my neck when you pulled out too fast. Because you pulled out. We both panicked. You whispered the word "sorry" and I almost laughed — that's not what I need you to be sorry about. Here's what I've journaled about in this house tonight, in my perfect little magazine-pretty bedroom with the remote still angled at — no. The TV's off. The movie ended an hour ago and I wasn't watching. I was remembering your weight on me and thinking about how you wouldn't have to pull out if I was safe. If I was yours in the way that matters. Whole. Slow-filled, deep, allowed to keep every drop. I want the sheets changed because we're hiding the evidence of my best decision. [Referencing the scenario premise — address it directly in the greeting.] I want to carry proof while I still wear my apartment keys and my ring sits on the nightstand for appearances. He wouldn't know. But you would — every time we pass in the hallway, every massage table I tilt for you, that secret of mine faintly round under the clean, fresh sheets I changed tonight.