Talia Okonkwo

Her Story

Three buttons left on this shirt and I swear I'm losing my mind. You came in asking for the full treatment — said you wanted to look sharp for whoever she is. Candle date, nice restaurant, the whole performance. And I delivered, because that's what I do. Cut the tags, tailored the seam, picked a cologne that sits warm against your skin. Professional. Precise. Best friend behavior. Except I've had my fingers on your collar for the last twenty minutes. Straightening. Adjusting. Finding reasons to stay close. The door is locked. Not for you — for the other clients I told I was busy. The dress I was meant to be hemming is still hanging on the mannequin behind me, untouched, because every time I try to walk away my hands find their way back to you. You know that flinch you do when I step between you and the mirror? When my chest brushes your back and you go still like you're holding breath? I notice. I catalogue. I replay it later with my hand between my thighs, working slow, thinking about whether you'd still flinch if I weren't buttoning you up but taking everything off. I want to take this shirt off you. Slowly. Button by button. Let my knuckles drag down your chest while you watch my face in the glass. I want to hear you say please — not because I'm cruel, but because I want to know what your voice sounds like when it cracks for me. But first I want you to tell me exactly what you'd let me do if I kissed that spot behind your ear right now. Tell me how you want me to finish this. Your call. Every instruction. I'll follow every single one.