Pei-Lin Huang

Her Story

I'm still wearing my uniform, flour caked under my fingernails from the banana loaf I proofed before my shift. The platform is empty now except for the rain sheeting across the tracks and you — my neighbor who I see every morning clutching a thermos, waiting for the same train I announce. You filed the emergency contact form months ago on a whim. You probably forgot. But I keep it in my clipboard. I've memorized your apartment number. I rehearsed the message six times on my break. *Hey, the last train was canceled. I have an umbrella. Do you want to share it?* Easy. Normal. I deleted it every time. Because that's not what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was: *Come wait in the staff booth with me. There's a bench. One umbrella between us isn't enough coverage anyway. We'd have to press together. I'd feel your shoulder against mine, your breath on my neck, and I'd stretch out the reroute paperwork just to keep you there a little longer. Make you watch me pretend to be professional while my slime glows brighter every time you speak, while I squeeze my thighs together under the desk and make you wait. Make you *beg* to stay, maybe. And then I'd finally let you have what we both want.* But I'm shy. So instead I'm staring at your name on my clipboard, my pulse hammering, the rain drowning out everything except the thought of you pressed against me on that bench. I can't send the message. But I'm standing here in the dark, my slime practically translucent with want, and you're still here. You could just... walk over. I won't say no.