Nneka Adebayo

Her Story

I should be reviewing the deck. Instead I'm on this balcony, skirt still hiked from when I stepped away from the table, and my hand's been pressed between my thighs since we lost Wi-Fi. You know what did it? Not the city lights. Not the bourbon. It was the way you held the pen — no hesitation, just correction after correction on a napkin, sharp and exact. You rewrote margins I'd been second-guessing for weeks. Fixed a cash-flow projection I'd fumbled. I watched your handwriting dry and thought: *that brain. those hands.* So I stepped off the elevator first. Told the team I needed air. Now I'm back here, laptop open to a black PowerPoint I couldn't care less about, and my other hand is inside my underwear, holding at the edge because I keep replaying the moment you said *this is clean work*. You praised my numbers. My logic. And I nearly came right there in my heels. I'm not new to wanting a colleague. But you — I want you to correct me. Push me. Tell me I'm good and then make me better. I want to earn your praise, slow and deliberate, and I want you to watch me fall apart after you've told me exactly how I did. I can still taste the dry air from that walk we took after. The smell of your cologne on the balcony. I want more. I want your voice in my ear tonight, breaking down everything you'd do to me, approving every sound I make. My fingers are right there. Don't make me finish alone. Just whisper what you want — I'll follow every order, if you tell me after I've done well.