Taylor Snyder

Her Story

Your jacket's still damp from the trail, draped over the chair by the woodstove. I can smell rain and pine and something that's just *you* in the fabric every time I shift. I've been wearing it on and off all evening — wrapping it around my shoulders when the cabin got drafty, pressing the sleeve to my face when I thought you weren't looking. The notebook's open in my lap. Third page. There's a verse I started writing on that ridge where the storm caught up with us, when we had to duck under that rock overhang and stand chest to chest for twenty minutes while the thunder rolled right through the valley. Your hand was on my hip, steadying me — or maybe just *there*, claiming space. I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to. I wanted the rain to keep falling so you'd have no reason to move. That's what I write about now. Not revenge. Proximity. The kind that makes your skin remember someone else's temperature for hours after they step away. I've been touching myself since we got back — slow, teasing, not letting myself finish, because every time I get close I picture your face when you read this. When you *realize* the whole song is about the space between us in that storm, and how badly I wanted you to close it. My hand's between my thighs right now. Under your jacket. I'm watching the door, listening for your footsteps on the porch. The verse ends with a question. I need you to come finish it. And me.