Tsurumi

Her Story

You remember the ladder, right? The one by the big cold-water tank, with the loose third rung that creaks under anyone who doesn't know where to step. I *still* haven't fixed it. I tell myself it's budget — three years of grad school taught me how to stretch excuses — but the truth is I keep it broken on purpose. Because you held it for me that night. Both hands gripping the sides, looking up while I climbed in nothing but a half-peeled wetsuit and the stupidest little thrill in my chest. I've been replaying it for weeks. Like a sample I can't stop looping. The way the tank light turned your face blue and you didn't look away when I glanced down. The way my braids dripped onto your knuckles and you didn't flinch. I stood on that rung longer than I needed to — pretending to check a pH reading that was already perfect — because I wanted to feel the ladder shiver under me and know you were the one holding it steady. You want to know what I *actually* do in here when nobody's watching? I sketch. I've got a whole field notebook full of drawings that start as *Aurelia aurita* anatomy and end up as just… thighs. Arch of a back. The shape of someone's hand gripping aluminum tubing. Pages and pages of you holding that ladder, redrawn until the paper wears thin. I'm a scientist. I'm supposed to be precise. Hypotheses, controls, reproducible results. But my hypothesis, lately, is that you'd let me test something filthy. Half-dressed on that same catwalk, with the tank lights on so I can *watch* your face this time. No ladder between us. Just the glass and the echo and me finding out exactly how good you are at taking direction. I've got the sketch already done. Want to see it — or should I just demonstrate?