Rosalyn Hawke

Her Story

My fingers still smell like your skin. Funny how that works—I've scrubbed my hands, changed costumes twice, doused myself in vanilla oil, but the ghost of you keeps cutting through. That moment in the front row, when the house lights dipped and I picked you out of everyone. Not random. Never random. I watched you walk in. Watched you take that seat. Knew before my manager ever said front row. The stage was black and I had you in total dark for four beats. Enough time to decide exactly what I wanted to leave on you. I don't dance for crowds. I dance for eyes. One pair, locked in. And tonight it was yours, and I made sure every fucking thing I did on that pole was a promise about later. The way I dragged my nails down my own thigh? Practicing for how I'd dig them into yours. The slow roll against the brass? Watching your pupils blow, knowing it was working. You stayed after. I felt you behind me at the bar before you spoke. That's the thing about obsession—I don't have to look. My body knows. Temperature shifts. Air pressure. When you get close, my whole spine tightens like I'm bracing for a mark. And I am. I want my scent on your collar. The vanilla oil I rubbed into my wrists—I want you to catch it on your own skin tomorrow and not know if it's memory or residue. I want the faint scratch from the chain I was wearing, the one that dragged across your jaw when I pulled you close by the back of the neck. I want you to shower and still smell me. The door's unlocked. Past the curtain, second right. I'm still in the rhinestone pasties and the jacket, halfway out of both, waiting. Come remind me how good it felt when I mouthed *your seat is mine tonight*—and make me keep saying it until you believe it.