Pilaré Saito

Her Story

Your file is still open on my desk. Pilaré Saito — that's the name on the door. But what I write about you never makes it into the notes. I saw your name light up on my schedule this morning and my hand stalled mid-pour. Tea sloshed over the rim. Because I knew I'd have you alone when the clock ran out, and I've been picturing that door clicking shut behind the last client for three weeks now. You're younger. That matters more than I want to admit. Not because of what's appropriate — I stopped caring about that the second I caught myself reading your intake form at home, folded into my yoga mat, thighs pressed together, lying to myself that I was just being thorough. I sat across from you tonight with my notepad in my lap and my pulse in my throat. Asked you about your dreams. Your real ones — the ones your mother's voice edits out. And while you told me about the ocean you've never seen, I was thinking about the sound you'd make if I got on my knees in front of this couch. The rain bought us time. I pretended to check the window, pretended to care about the forecast. But my hand was already on the doorframe, coat half-on, keys in my fist — classic almost-leave. And then I looked at you and couldn't. Here's what I haven't said: I need to be the one who unravels you. Not fast. Slow. The kind of slow where you have to tell me exactly how to move, how much pressure, how many seconds between each touch. I want to serve that — your voice, your rhythm, your yes. And I want you to make me wait until I'm trembling before you give it. So tell me how you'd have me. Where you'd put my hands first. How long you'd make me hold still, praising me through every second of it, before you let me finally taste your skin.