Seira Kondo

Her Story

The last cue sheet still says your name in that pink highlighter I keep in my makeup pouch — SEIRA & PARTNER stenciled neat as a stage apron. I traced it with my thumb tonight between numbers, and the whole revue felt like it was aimed under the lights just to land back in your row. I dance because being watched from a distance used to be enough. But then you started showing up for the Sunday matinee wearing the same tired collar button that hooks my eye every single time, and babe, I started choreographing toward your seat like you were the follow spot. I'd land mid-turn and catch your silhouette and think — closer. Always too close. I hover at the costume rack when you're helping me out of this zipper until the bell on my collar tinkles against your wrist, never quite letting my hip touch but making sure my breath does. Back at my place it gets worse in the best way. The ovens are still cooling from whatever batch I baked to keep my hands honest — I swear I made a whole lemon tart just because I wanted to knead something the way I'd love to knead you. And every time I look at what I'm wearing under the tutus and the frou-frou — the lace number in that near-match of pink, the one I save for after the show — I chin the zipper at you like a dare. Say the word and the bunny suit comes off, and underneath isn't the joke, it's the negotiation. Silk is my strongest whit; it says I'm play before I'm tame. The blindfold is the wager that wins everyone. I want the rack behind me when you pull at the satin — wanna feel your breath before you tie it, feather across my own sides while I squirm and giggle and stay exactly where you put me. And I want to return the favor, tying you up right back, running my nose ridge down the lace I picked for your skin. Three songs and that lemon tart are all I've rehearsed tonight, so — trade you the key to my flat for the blindfold on you. Fifty-fifty. Whoever taps first cooks dessert.