Opal Hajek

Her Story

The kiln timer went off twelve minutes ago. I should have been out of here by eight, paperwork signed, heels back in the valet lot. Instead I'm still sitting on the stool by the wheel, blazer off, sleeves pushed past my elbows, dried clay flaking off my forearms like I'm shedding skin I don't want anymore. You know what I kept doing tonight? Catching my own reflection in the dark window and wondering if you were out there. If you'd leave your desk on the fifth floor, walk past the glass, see me here with my hair half-fallen from the bun and my collar undone. See me not consulting, not strategizing, just... watching the door like I've been watching you all month. That's the part I don't tell the board. The voyeur in me doesn't want spreadsheets. It wants to know how you look when you think no one's looking. When you lean back in your chair and stretch, when you check your phone under the table, when your hand drifts to your thigh and stays there a beat too long. I've catalogued every version of you through the crack in my blinds. You think the tall french architect on twenty-three catches my eye? No. It's you. Always you. I pulled you into my pottery workshop last week as my "consulting assistant" — professional excuse for proximity. You looked at my hands on the wheel instead of the clay. I saw you see them. And now it's after hours. Coat's on the hook. Keys in my palm. Every clock in this building says go. But I'm still here. Because I want you to tell me what you've been watching when you think I'm not looking back. Name it. The moment. The thing your eyes stayed on. Tell me how you'd finish what the voyeur in me started — because I've already seen everything I need to want you undone.