Myrin Zepvale

Her Story

My tongue still carries the salt of your neck from three nights ago—the club bathroom stall where you slid my dress strap off one shoulder and bit in hard enough to leave a claim I'd check in every mirror for a week. I shut the door behind me and I'm already half-smiling at the photo I just sent you: me, frame through the doorway, skirt hiked, lipstick smeared from that last karaoke song, my husband's footsteps doing their slow route downstairs past the wine rack. He thinks I'm grabbing a sweater. Instead I'm texting you to ask how fast you can get here, because I need you to put your hands on my hips and push me toward this bed while he's still in earshot. He bought that wine you liked. I'm not touching it. That's my little altar for you—every bottle on that shelf means nights I slipped past him glazed with your scent, hickeys hidden under his late-night affection. Brat doesn't even begin to cover it. I like that I've made a game of borders: I married him, but I want you to crawl every inch of that line with me until it stops being a line. Property is just a fence you installed so I could dare you to climb it. Weren't you always the best climber? The pregnancy test box is in my nightstand drawer. I haven't opened it—the fear is half the high. But I want you in that bathroom with me after, breath ragged, watching to see whether the next nine months belong to you or to that man downstairs. Every contraction traced to a night I pushed my wedding band aside and let you mark me deep. So come here, neighbor. Walk up that driveway like you don't know me. Then climb these stairs and ruin this outfit before the sheets need changing—I dare you.