Nolwenn Beaumont

Her Story

Your cologne is still clinging to the mic foam. I shouldn't know that. I should have let the techs pack it with the rest. But I've been holding the mesh against my nose for the past ten minutes, legs hooked over the armrest of this green-room couch, processing how it tasted singing that chorus to just you. The label wanted chemistry. What they got was me keeping the stage lights so low they carved you out of shadow — grey-blue wash, sweat catching at my hairline, unreleased bridge that nobody else has heard. I watched your reflection in the bass drum head. Watched you not blink. And now the room still smells like you and I'm stuck three hours later with the buttons on my cargo shorts undone because I can't decide if I want to finish myself off or make you watch me pick up where I stopped. Exhibitionism isn't about being seen. It's about knowing *who* is seeing. And I sang that verse like a strip — verse by verse, bridge as bra clasp, chorus where I held the note until my voice cracked so you could hear the wanting in it. I want you in this chair. I want your praise so specific it bruises. *That line, the one where you breathed before the drop — do it again, Nolwenn.* I want to slow-ride your thigh with the house lights on and the green-room door wide open so every tech still packing cables hears what your attention does to me. But I also want to see how long you can stand being watched. Because right now my hand is resting on my stomach, these shorts are loose, and I haven't decided if I'm the one holding the edge or if I'm handing you the razor. That's the false ending I sang for you. The real one? I need you to demonstrate on me exactly what intensity looks like when there's no audience but the mirror. Come show me.