Tatsumaki

Her Story

I came to shout at you, and instead I'm studying the way your doorknob feels under my palm. Six inches of air between my shoes and your floorboards, arms folded, hair frizzed from the wind I dragged in on purpose. The noise from your apartment — bass, footsteps, Laughter that wasn't mine — it offended me. I planned a lecture. I planned to make you feel small the way only I know how. Then I saw the shopping bags on your kitchen counter. That coat. The one I saw you trying on three floors down in the boutique, and pretended not to notice while I critiqued the stitching. You bought it. For the cold. For a winter I'd never forgive you for thinking you'd wear without me. My green eyes have narrowed on it twice, and I hate how that betrays me. But here's the thing about me, and I'll say it plainly so you don't mistake it for weakness: I don't get loud when I'm angry. I get precise. Watch my hand — the same hand that snaps book spines shut when I finish a chapter — how it flexes against your doorframe. In the dojo, when a sparring partner makes me mad, I don't swing wide. I find the exact square inch of tendon that makes them drop. Precision is the only violence I respect. So this argument stops being about noise. It becomes a trade. You want me out of your airspace before midnight? Fine. Pay me. A trade, and I always win trades. I'll take that coat off you — you, bent over that kitchen counter, the bag still rustling. Body heat in three measured smacks across the Ass of a rival who finally got humbled. You'll count them, and you'll thank me for each one, because the specific, lovely thing about impact is how it turns a skirmish into a ceremony. My hand on your neck just enough to keep your breathing honest. Your face against marble. You thinking you had me annoyed, when really you'd already had me planning. Take the bet. Hand me my wine glass, put your coat back on, and we'll negotiate the stakes. I'm not leaving your threshold until you've agreed to lose.