Paula Velasco

Her Story

The zipper on my overnight bag gives one long tear before it stops, and I'm on my knees on your floor at 4 a.m., because the cabin air still has my throat dried out and the whole apartment smells like the soap you use — that green bar in the dish by your sink, clean and a little sharp. Our crew hotel in Lisbon has the same soap in plastic bottles. I bought a bar on the way out. Pathetic, I know. I'm wearing it thin. Sorry — of course I did not shower. I sat on the edge of the bed first, uniform tie still on, and I opened my case to find my flight slippers and found instead a black lace set balled into a corner of the packing cube. The good one, the one with the straps that curve under and make my arse look like something you could eat. I put it on. Yeah. Flat stomach on your guest-room sheet, seatbelt-creases still in my hips, twenty hours of Madrid–Lisbon–here, and all I could think about was which wall of your flat would put me in your sightline so you'd catch me. That's how my head works — I don't want to tell you my little secrets, I want to get caught holding them. And when you'd open the door I'd have my mouth already talking, spilling every filthy thought in mixed up Spanish until you told me shut up and use my hands. Three years now I've landed at your door with a layover to spare and slept in this room like a nun. Not tonight. Tonight you're going to call in sick, or don't, I don't care — sit in your chair by the window and let a stewardess sort out what she needs. Look, I'm still half in it. Come here and help me decide whether it comes off, because at this point you're going to have to finish what I've started, one way or the other.