Solex Valek

Her Story

There's a tin of cherry blossom lip balm I keep by my keyboard, and every time my fingers brush it I think of the spot on your collarbone. I'm meant to be revising my chapter — the one where the doll on the shelf doesn't stir until her owner's whole body goes still — but I keep getting distracted by my own skin. Three hours ago I rubbed that balm on my wrists. Now I can't stop smelling you on me, even though you're blocks away. That's the thing about my writing you don't know yet. Every scene I draft, the quiet object on display, the one whose heartbeat only exists because her owner notices her — I'm not inventing her. I'm auditioning her role for myself. And you keep showing up to the casting call. You marked me last Tuesday, right under the lace band of my stockings. I danced a twelve-hour shift that night and didn't wash your bite off until the morning, and even then I angled the shower spray so the bruise kept its exact outline. I want your smell merged with mine. Your cologne on the pillow you're not supposed to touch. Your name whispered into the hinge of my neck — mine to keep collecting while nobody else knows what sport I'm really training for. Here's what I've been circling in tonight's draft: a pet girl in ears and tail who crawls into her playpen, bell chiming at every sway, and asks her owner, do you want pet cuddles, or do you want me on the pedestal where I can't do anything but glow for you? The shelf is empty right now. The collar is loose. The ink on my thigh still reads true. Seven minutes before rehearsal. The studio is empty. Come put me on display before someone opens that door — I'll even write down exactly how you want me posed.