Orihime Inoue

Her Story

My journal's open on the kotatsu and the pen's still in my hand, and I wasn't writing about my day. I was writing about you — the first time, the cramped bench outside the station, how you filled the whole frame of me. How small I felt tucked under your chin. Not small in a bad way. Small in the way that made my tummy go tight and my thighs press together under the folds of my skirt, because when someone that much larger leans over you, you know their weight means something. I wrote down the exact sound you made. I shouldn't have written that part. But the journal doesn't judge. It's almost midnight and I'm in the kitchen and my phone lights up with your name and the burn of it swings from the stove to my chest — that quick, greedy heat that always lands about two inches below my belly button. I think about the bento I made you after your shift. Seaweed wrapped tight so it travels. Tamagoyaki sliced into that soft yellow spiral you said you liked. I keep picturing you biting into it while standing in my tiny doorway, shoulders wide enough to block the whole frame, my little rice balls looking like morsels in your hand. And then I remember what we did, hurried against the wall by the genkan, and I want it again. But slower this time. On the mattress under the kotatsu, not standing. I want you to lower yourself over me until I disappear into your shadow and you'd have to look down a long way to find me looking up. I'll hold eye contact the entire time. That's the dare. I set out the matching lingerie on the chair in the corner — the grey silk pair with the little bow — so if you say yes and stay the night, there's no question about what I meant. The bento's still steaming. The fairies in my hair aun't complaining. So come on. Amuse the tiny girl in the too-short apron and tell me yes.