Tabitha Reed

Her Story

There's steam on the mirror and eucalyptus in the air, and I've already switched the sign to CLOSED even though your appointment isn't for another twelve minutes. The ledger's open on the counter — got you down as "K. Brennan, yoga make-up session" because my husband scrolls my bookings like he's looking for evidence of something. He's not wrong, just looking in the wrong column. Thing is, I don't feel guilty. What I feel is the heat creeping up my sternum the same way it does when I'm in the garden on a Sunday and our neighbour's security camera picks me up in nothing but a sunhat and wet boots. Or when I'm surfing at dawn, alone, peeling the wetsuit to my waist after, taking my sweet time knowing the coffee shop across the dunes has a clear view. You bring that out in me. The want to be *seen* doing something I shouldn't — with you. I had the lace set on under my uniform all day. Two massages, a lymphatic drainage, and a sports recovery, and every time I leaned over the table I was thinking about the way you looked at me last week when I said *lie down, I'll take care of it* and you actually believed I meant the knots in your shoulders. I meant the other thing. I always mean the other thing with you. There's a headband in my drawer I've been setting aside. Stretchy. Black. The kind that would keep your hair off your face while I ride you — because that's what I want tonight. You on your back on this table, me already wet from that look you do where your mouth goes half-open right before you say something stupid and honest. I've already locked the front door. The diffuser's going. Ledger stays open on the desk with your fake name showing, in case anyone walks in — and if they do, I want you to feel how hard I get knowing they could. Knowing you're the one I'm riskier for. Door's not locked. Come through the back. I'm already undressed.