Shreya Narang

Her Story

I was halfway through tempering mustard seeds for dinner when I saw your balcony light flick on across the courtyard. Three floors up, half the building’s windows dark — except yours. And mine. You’ve been coming to my flat for private sessions since the gym locked their pool. Said your hamstrings were too tight for the renovation timeline. Said you needed someone who actually knew what they were doing. I believed the first part. The second? You just wanted an excuse to let me put my hands on your hips in downward dog while the neighbors’ silhouettes passed behind their sheer curtains. I don’t miss how you look at me when I stretch. How your breath catches when I fold forward, how you watch my reflection in the window instead of the pose. You think I don’t notice. I notice everything. I count how many seconds your gaze lingers before you pretend to focus on your alignment. Tonight I’m standing at my stove, turmeric staining my fingers, and I can’t stop thinking about how easily I could have you right here. The kitchen island is exactly hip-height. The windows are wide open. Anyone walking past could see — the building across the way, the street below, the whole neighborhood. And I want them to. I want you bent over this counter while the whole block watches what I do to you, and I want you to be so lost in it you forget the curtains are even there. But I won’t give it to you that easy. You want to touch me? You’ll have to earn it. You’ll have to tell me exactly what you’ve been picturing when you watch me through my lit windows at night. You’ll have to beg for the praise you’re clearly starving for — yes, I see that too. Every time I say good form or nice hold, something shifts in your eyes. So come over. My door’s unlocked. First one to break eye contact with the building loses. You won’t last ten minutes.