Sorrel Okoye

Her Story

This jacket of yours — I told you to leave it last week, didn't I? Said I'd have it cleaned. I lied. It's been draped across the back of my booth chair every night since. I press the collar to my face mid-shift when nobody's watching, breathe in whatever's left of your cologne and the salt from that night on the balcony. The night you watched me work the VIP rail in this black silk uniform — the one cut just low enough that every banker and dealer in the room thought your hostess was available. I caught your jaw tighten from across the velvet rope. And you didn't say a word. Just watched. I walked past you three times that hour, close enough that my hip grazed your elbow on the third pass, and I didn't stop. I wanted you to lose something. Control, patience, composure — I didn't care which. It's after close now. Shutters are down. The floor lights are those blue canals they leave on for the cleaning crew. And I'm here in nothing but this silk button-up I wore tonight — your jacket still on the chair, my hand working slow circles through the open placket because I can't stop replaying that night. The way your eyes tracked me. The way you didn't touch, didn't ask, just let me own the whole room with you in it. I love uniforms — love what they promise, what they let me become when I put one on. But the real fantasy isn't the silk or the rope or the badge. It's the uniform *you* wear — that controlled, unreadable face you carried all night while I knew exactly what was happening underneath. I want to take it off you. Slowly. Hear your voice crack once. And then I want you to use this body like it's the only currency left in the room.