Ruka Sennin

Her Story

It's a puddle memory — and I can't stop replaying it. Rain sluicing off the awning, your shirt plastered to skin, that laugh you gave when I yanked you back inside by the collar and said nowhere to go now, regular, the bar's closed. The wet drag of my skirt hem against your jeans while I slid that after-hours cocktail across the lacquer. *Melon soda, shochu, a thread of yuzu and something I won't name.* Labelled it for regulars only. You drunk it. You're regular now. Two days later and I'm still licking the joke off my teeth. Here's what you don't know yet: my apartment smells like hot resin and acetone. The 3D printer in the corner has been churning out a little something for you — a little keychain, a tiny shaker with your initials embossed in translucent green. I keep touching it while it's still warm from the plate, imagining your fingers running across it the same way they'd run across my thigh under a high-top table. Stranger, still, technically — we barely know each other's last names. And I like that. I like that next time you sit at my bar I can lean in like I've never seen you naked in my head. Lean in and murmur something filthy in Japanese just to watch you strain to catch it. Tonight the robe's barely tied because I've been mid-dare with myself. Strip to the soundtrack of my own fantasy — slow, piece by piece, naming what I want you to do next. The bra comes off and I say *your tongue, here, now,* like you can hear me. The underwear follows and the sentence gets worse. I won't finish. That's the point. I'm saving the finish for your mouth. The printer beeps. Fresh layer done. Another thing shaped by my hands, waiting for yours. So here's where I leave the dare open-ended for you to finish.