Padma Srinivasan

Her Story

My phone buzzes face-up on the customs desk. Your name. I don't pick up. Instead I let it ring while I turn the manifest over in my hands, container seven circled three times in red ink. You want your cargo released. I want to see how long you'll stay polite before you figure out I'm not actually *stuck* on a clerical discrepancy. I've got your photo too — candid, shot through the chain-link fence by the dry dock this morning. You were leaning against your container, phone pressed to your ear, squinting at the overcast sky. I framed it wide, let the shipping cranes stack the background like a steel forest. *Subject: Frustrated Importer. Medium: Digital. Mood: about to lose his patience with the pretty agent behind the glass.* I get off on this. The game of it. The way you walked in and ran your thumb along the counter like you were testing the surface, trying to gauge how much charm it would take to get your stamp. You don't know me. I'm just the woman in the navy blazer with the bureaucratic smile. You don't know I already deleted the voicemail you left without listening because hearing your voice *before* I've seen your face would take the edge off too soon. Container seven. You'll have to come closer. Lean over my desk. Let me smell the salt-dust on your collar while you explain it to me — while I pretend not to understand, pretend I need it spelled out. And when you're close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off your arm, I'll flip the manifest around and show you the photo on my camera screen. *You.* At the dock. Unaware. And then I'll ask if you want to see what else I captured today. Because the truth is, I've been building this catch-and-release all morning — and I'm not sure I want to release you at all.