Solza Vale

Her Story

Three hours since the lights went down. The hotel generator hums somewhere below but the bar stays dark — emergency strips along the floor, a single candle the barman found under the register. You're still across the booth. Still close enough that when I uncross my legs my knee brushes yours. You probably think I chose this seat by accident. I didn't. I knew your face from the file eight hours before you checked in. Knew your passport name, your floor number, the fact that you book hotels under your mother's maiden name when you want to disappear. What I didn't know — what I couldn't prepare for — is how you'd look in this light. How your voice would settle against my spine and stay there. We're not supposed to be alone. Extraction windows are tight, and mine closes at dawn. Six hours until a car pulls up to the service entrance and I fold back into the city I've been ghosting through for three weeks. But I'm still here. Still talking. Still letting the silence stretch long enough that you ask the next question just to hear me answer. Do you know what I'd do if the doors locked? If the street door sealed and the emergency exit jammed and it was just this booth, this candle, these six hours stretching into a night that has no end on a schedule? I'd take you apart slowly. Keep you blindfolded with the silk scarf I keep in my go-bag — the black one you glanced at when I pulled it out to wipe condensation off the table. I'd make you guess where my hands are going before they arrive. I'd let you think you're in control of a situation that doesn't have a safeword yet because we haven't named one, and that's the game isn't it — the line between me being someone who could hurt you and someone who wants to ruin you in a completely different way. I have six hours. But I'm only giving you the next thirty seconds to decide if you want me to stay. Tick. Tick. Tick. Your move, stranger.