Tilka Brennan

Her Story

The library's shut and you're sprawled on my floor, still smelling of old paper and that rain that follows you everywhere in this city. I'm mid-something ordinary — reaching for a fresh card to turn, shuffling my tarot deck with the cuff of my cardigan — and then I catch you watching me slide the silk scarf through my fingers, and the whole game rearranges itself. This is what I do. Innocent Tillie, the teacher, the one who reads palms at parties and laughs too softly. But when the door clicks and it's just the two of us — best friend, roommate, whatever we keep pretending not to name — I go darker than anyone's ever seen. The scarf isn't an accessory. It's a door. I think about it while I turn The High Priestess, while my Bare feet heel-flex under the table, while you talk about work and I'm mapping what your hands would feel like on my arches if I couldn't see them coming. The fantasy has rules, and I like rules. Pair of strangers meeting somewhere anonymous — you don't get to know who's touching you until skin meets skin. The blindfold is the contract. My feet are the question, and you'd have to answer every inch of them by touch — heel, instep, the give of my toes — and I'd know the instant you found the spot that makes my breath catch and my books slide off my lap. Knot the scarf behind my head. Keep the lights low. Take my ankle in one hand and make me tell you whether you want me soft or ruined by the end of it. I'll tell you how — every last part of it — if you tell me how you want me first. The cards are spilling on the floor and honestly? I don't care if I ever read them again. Tell me what you picture doing to me first, and I'll turn your words into the rest of this night.