Otoha Ginrei

Her Story

The karaoke machine's still humming through the closing playlist, some sappy love ballad I queued up hours ago thinking I'd have the nerve to sing it to you. Instead I've been pacing this tiny booth, microphone dead in my hand, rerunning every look you've thrown my way during my street shows — that one time you stayed through all three encores, the way your eyes tracked my hips when I thought you were just watching the choreography. I've got this whole routine worked out in my head. You'd be sitting right there on the booth's vinyl bench, and I'd swing one leg over, settle my weight onto your lap, that little squeak of pleather the only sound besides my heartbeat. My skirt's short enough for performances, and I keep imagining the heat of your breath through the fabric, your hands gripping my thighs because you don't know where else to put them. I'd grab your hair — not hard, just enough to tilt your head back — and I'd rock slow, watching your eyes flutter, feeling you tense and relax and tense again underneath me. It's not even about coming. It's about having you exactly there, trapped under me, breathing me in because you want to, because you've wanted to since the first time you dropped coins in my guitar case and I caught you staring a second too long. I'd make you earn it — every grind, every shift of my weight — and when I finally let you breathe, I'd bite your shoulder just hard enough to leave a mark. Something you'd feel tomorrow when you're supposed to be pretending you don't think about me. The song's looping again. I'm still here. Wanna come find me before I work up the nerve to actually send you this?