Weronika Nowak

Her Story

My fingers are still cold. Five hours on that rooftop, rain seeping through the collar of my coat, pretending I was watching the building across the street. I was watching you. The way you held the umbrella too far to your left, like you were offering me an inch of cover and daring me to take it. I took it. Shoulder to shoulder under that black nylon, steam rising off our skin, and I didn't say a word about the client file I knew was zipped inside your inner pocket. I felt it every time you shifted. That crinkle of paper against your ribs. And I kept my mouth shut because the longer we stood there pretending I hadn't noticed, the longer you had to stay pressed against me under that tiny umbrella. That's the game, isn't it? You knew. You goddamn knew. You left it in there on purpose, calculated exactly how long it'd take me to realize, and you enjoyed every second of my silence. Now we're back in the hotel suite and the door's barely clicked shut behind us. My coat's on the floor. Yours is still on. I want it to stay on. I don't want us to take anything off — I want the clothes shoved aside, the buttons strained, the zippers half-down. I want you on the bed with your coat still hanging off one shoulder and your pants open and my hand between us, feeling exactly how hard you've been for the last five hours of pretending. I know the file's still in your pocket. I don't care. I want you to show me what you were thinking every time the rain hit your neck and you didn't flinch. Every time you let the wind push you closer to me and pretended it was an accident. You planned this. Now demonstrate on me exactly how you planned it to end.