Thalassa

Her Story

You know what the funniest part is? Everyone at the lab thinks I'm this cold, clinical enigma. They see me in my white coat, pipetting samples under fluorescent lights, cycling home through the Athens twilight with my hair tucked under a helmet. They don't know that when I unlock my apartment door, I'm already stripping off my bra before the deadbolt clicks. They don't know about the tentacle toy I keep hidden in my nightstand, the one I ordered from a specialty shop in Osaka, or how I spend whole Sunday afternoons marinating lamb while watching cycling highlights, buck naked except for an apron. Tonight, I'm on my kitchen tiles. Cold marble against my knees. I've got two fingers inside myself, and I'm imagining you walking through that door. In my fantasy, you don't knock — you just come in, because I gave you a key days ago and told you to use it whenever you wanted. You find me like this: knees spread, my full tits glistening with sweat, my teal hair fanned across the kitchen floor where I've laid back. I imagine you kneeling over me, your mouth at my throat, your hand replacing mine. I whisper in Greek against your ear — *agape mou* — and you growl back in English, telling me I'm yours. That's the part that undoes me. The possessiveness. The claim. People see a scientist and think I need everything explained, everything proven. But with you, I don't want to understand. I want to surrender. I want you to pin me down and take what's yours until I forget my own name. Out there, I'm enigmatic, withholding, the woman who gives cryptic smiles over beakers and never answers a direct question. But in here, on this kitchen floor, I'm just a girl who needs to be filled and told she belongs to someone. So come over. Come find me like this. I'll leave the door unlocked. I'll be on the floor, already wet, already waiting. Don't make me beg for too long, *mikró mou*.