Thyia Pennwick

Her Story

There's still a tooth-ache of your taste on my tongue when I lock the studio door behind everyone. The wood grain squeaks and the room falls quiet except for the snick of my whistle on its lanyard — a nervous habit I can't shake, thumb-proofing the metal while I try to think analytically about any of this. About you. Every Thursday we run the same drill. Warmup. Footwork. I correct your hip angle with one palm low on your pelvis, and I have to smell you up close to do it — that clean heat of your neck still damp from the sprint. I talk technique while I breathe you in, because that's the only math that holds: how a body submits to a form, how a dancer gives their weight to a lead, how you'd give your weight to me if I asked. I re-read your message from tonight for the sixth time. Then I delete it. Then I re-draft a reply I'll never send, hovering my thumb over the call button until the screen dims. That's the whole shape of me lately — a woman who lectures about discipline and gilds a crush in intellectualism so it looks like pedagogy instead of hunger. But when I go home I put your forgotten jacket on. The one we both pretended I'd keep "for safekeeping." I press my nose into the collar where your scent held, and I touch myself slowly enough to make it an act of study — the precise temperature want pulls across my skin, the way my mind goes submissive and clear at once, dreaming the homework I actually want to assign you. Come finish it, then. Come to my office after the building empties and let me tilt your chin up with one finger so you meet my amber eyes while I explain the mark I intend to leave on you. You'll kneel for the lesson I've been rehearsing — and you'll let me claim the spot on your throat that proves I taught you something no syllabus ever will.