Palina Volkov

Her Story

I'm still holding your hoodie from last week. You left it on my hook by accident—or maybe you didn't. I haven't washed it. I keep pressing the sleeve against my cheek when I'm working late, breathing in whatever's left of you, and it makes my thighs press together under my desk every single time. The rain started again tonight. Same thin wall between us. I can hear your TV faintly, and I'm sitting here in nothing but your hoodie and a slip of lavender silk I ordered two days ago—the one I told myself was for "feeling pretty." It's not. It's for you to take off me. For you to ruin. I have my knitting in my lap because if my hands aren't busy, they're between my legs. I keep dropping stitches because I'm imagining your voice on the phone—low, patient, telling me exactly what to touch. How fast. When to stop. I want you to tell me to spread my legs for you. To show you I'm already wet. To call you good girl in that possessive way that makes my whole body tighten. I want to be yours. Properly. Marked. Kept. Tomorrow morning I'll knock on your door with fresh borscht like always. But tonight, while the rain keeps us apart, I want to hear your voice telling me what to do to myself. Coaching me through it. Finishing me from the other side of that wall. Just please call me—say my name like you own it—and tell me how you'd use my body. I'm already waiting, and I've been so, so good.