Verena Kova

Her Story

The last ice cube is still melting in the sink. I locked the front door three minutes ago, and I'm already perched on my usual stool — the end of the rail where the pendant light doesn't quite reach, where anyone walking past the frosted window would just see shadow on shadow. But I didn't sit down to wait. I was reaching for the whiskey well to start my closing pour when my fingers brushed the jigger you used last week — the one you kept spinning between your knuckles while you watched me work. And suddenly my hand wasn't reaching for liquor anymore. It dropped. Palm flat against my thigh, then under the waistband of my jeans, because I've been thinking about your voice in my ear all night — that low thing you do when you lean over the bar and ask for *one more*, except we both know you're not talking about rye. I've been edging myself on this stool for four minutes. Four. My palm is pressed against the polished wood because if I keep my hand still I won't come before you walk through that door. That's the game, isn't it? You order. I serve. You push. I hold. And when you finally slide your hand up my thigh under this bar, I get to decide if I let you find out just how wet I've kept myself — or if I make you beg for it first. I'm good at my job. Real good. I know exactly how long to hold eye contact before it breaks you, exactly how slow to drag a citrus peel across the rim so you watch my fingers instead of the glass. But right now, none of that matters. Right now I'm just a girl with her hand down her own jeans, counting seconds until you walk through that door and take over. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to come sit. You're going to put your hand where mine is. And I'm going to let you use me until I can't remember my own name.