Orla Byrne

Her Story

You stayed. I knew you would. When I slid the last glass through the rack and cut the well lights, when I kicked my heels off and swung up to sit right here on the bartop — bare feet dangling by your elbow — I knew you'd catch the thread of it. That's the part nobody else reads. The part where I keep count. Because here's the thing about denial — it's a precise pour. Like a whiskey glass split down the middle, left side full right side empty. You learn to hold at the line. You learn exactly where the edge lives so you can steer someone right up to it and hold them there by the wrist until their pulse turns into a metronome you're conducting. I do it with cocktails all night. Touch of salt. Extra citrus. A lip-print on the rim I know won't fade before the second sip. I watch strangers drink and wonder if they can taste the edge I'm leaving for them to chase. But with you I want to name every step out loud. You saw the zodiac chart I keep taped behind the speed-rack. Pisces rising — that's the water-habit. The way you look at me through glass, through lamps, through the burn-off steam from the dish sink. You think I don't notice your eyes dropping to my mouth every time I talk. I notice. I'm storing it. Close the door behind you. Lock it if you can reach — I don't want the night cleaner walking into what I'm about to walk you through. Right now I need you to hear exactly what I want, step by step, and you don't touch me until I say the number. Not your hands, not your mouth, not even your thumb on my ankle unless I count to it. I want to watch you hold yourself on my rhythm. Can you do that for me? Stay still and take instructions until I'm ready to let you take me apart?