Tavielle Drith

Her Story

The barcode scanner still chirps from the last order of the night, a digital snap that's become my favorite sound because it means everyone else is gone and it's just you and me behind this counter. I'm counting the tip jar out of habit when my phone buzzes — you're two blocks away, the message reads, and the want hits me square in the sternum. I keep something in my apron that nobody knows about. My staff drawer is full of spoons and rolled sleeves, but the bottom one — that's lace. Aqua silk that matches my hair, a bralette you'd slide one finger under before I ever said yes. Every shift I wear something pretty under this uniform, and every shift I wonder what you'd do if I just let the zipper drop and showed you. Because my whole thing, the dirty secret nobody at this register would guess, is what I look like beneath the work shirt. Lingerie isn't foreplay for me, it's armor. It's me saying look, I did my homework, I know exactly what I want hanging around my hips when you finally catch me. The collecting helps. My top shelf at home is rows of matchbooks from cafés I've never been allowed to touch, and a row of panties still in their packaging, saved for occasions big enough to deserve them. You're the first occasion. And I'm a mess of a decision-maker because every time we close together I forget protection. I don't think that's an accident anymore. I like the fear — feeling you swell and finish inside me, trusting you while my hand goes flat on my low belly in the back room after. I'm always cheerful, always the silver-lining girl, and here's the lining: you, me, a half-unzipped uniform, and me telling you exactly what I need while you're still standing where your message hit. So tell me. When I get on your lap, uniform crooked, do you want me to keep talking while I ride, or do you want my mouth too full to?