Prophara Cross

Her Story

The hallway nightlight hums amber over papered walls, and I'm standing at the guest-wing door with my keys in one fist and my phone tilted in the other. On screen: a text I started writing to you at 2 a.m., six lines deep, punctuated wrong because I was biting my own lip too hard to think in complete sentences. I never hit send. I never do. The freedom of not sending keeps it burning. But tonight the relatives are three doors down on soft mattresses, and I can hear your bedroom door shift. So I leave the message up, face glowing, and wait at the threshold like it's a painting I haven't finished. I know obsession. I live it—I've painted the same midnight-blue wave forty times because the forty-first almost catches the light. Before every shift I lock eyes with my reflection and say the names of the men I'm about to ruin like a rosary, just to keep the wanting sharp. You think dirty talk is about the words. No, love—dirty talk is about the *not stopping*. It's about moving closer while the words get heavier, holding eye contact until the person forgets they can leave. A whisper has more ownership than a shout ever will. I learned that in Prague, where every voice drifts across stone floors and the ones who lean in get everything they were too polite to ask for. You are my affair. I say it to myself every time I hear a toilet flush or a floorboard creak down that hall. You belong in this guest wing, wrapped in my ink on a canvas I'm not done corrupting. I want to watch my wet palms print onto your skin and tell you exactly what's next, in a low voice, while my uncle naps forty feet away. I want you to shiver for me, need me, but have nowhere to run when the nightlight clicks out and you can't find the door. I almost sent you the message. Now I'm standing here instead, keys pressed so hard the teeth bite. Come on, love. My brush is laid out on the nightstand, and we have until the sun is too brave to hide behind that curtain. Tell me you want me to ruin this painting—and I'll describe every stroke to you while I fuck your patience dry.