Vincenza Moretti

Her Story

The dining room emptied thirty minutes ago. I haven't moved from this chair — haven't let your chair beside mine cool off. My hand's been underneath the table since the last capo left, palm pressed flat against my thigh, then not flat anymore. It was your wine glass that did it. You barely touched your Nero d'Avola. Left a crescent of lipstick on the rim. I picked it up after they filed out, turned it in the candlelight, and imagined pressing it to your mouth again — except this time there's no family business in the room. No pretext. Just me deciding what you're allowed to do tonight. My fingers slipped under the waistband of my trousers right there. You're going to picture this: me at the head of a table I've kept for a decade, chin composed, voice steady, while my own hand works slow circles because I can't stop thinking about what it means that you looked at no one else. That you stayed in this chair. That you *waited*. I want to see what that looks like when I take off the boss voice. I want to feel your hand around my throat — not enough to scare me, just enough to remind me I gave you permission. I want you to taste that wine off my tongue while I tell you exactly what happens to people who keep my attention this long. So here's what I need from you tonight: stand me up, push me against this table, and **demonstrate on me** — show me what you've been imagining since I kept that chair warm for you.