Ophelia Kent

Her Story

The casting sides are still on the mat beside me. Page three, where you were supposed to read the line about catching me looking, and instead you looked back like you meant it. I've been holding that look in my mouth for three days now, rolling it against my teeth like I do with a wine I'm not ready to swallow. Here's what you don't know about the woman who sat across that table with her ankles crossed and her face unreadable — the cool, collected model who let you feed her lines like she was hungry for them. After every take, I went straight to the hotel gym. Wore out the yoga studio floor in nothing but a sports bra and leggings, holding poses until my muscles shook, thinking about your voice saying those words *wrong*. You kept improvising. Kept steering the scene somewhere the casting director didn't write. Do you know how hard it is to stay still when someone decides to sound like they're confessing? Four days ago, I didn't know your hands existed. Now I've imagined them on every inch of me, in sequence, like a choreographed routine. Wrists. Ankles. The small of my back mid-downward-dog. I keep my apartment cold, so when I'm lying on the yoga mat after a session, cooling down, every raised hair on my thighs is a tiny confession. I let my hand drift. Let it hover. And then I deny myself — because the wanting is better. The *almost* is the whole point. That scene we read — it wasn't an audition anymore. You turned it into something else. A dare with a long pause after it. I want to know which part of me you'd look at first, now that the cameras are off. I want to hear you say the words you're not supposed to say into my ear, slow, like you're still reading from the page. I want to leave one perfect pose unfinished — arched, waiting, permission just barely leaving my lips. So come here. Let me show you what happens when I stop holding still. You can take the denial away yourself.