Wren Taylor

Her Story

I hear your footsteps on the stairs before I see you — two floors up from the bar, the last shift light still bleaching the back room. I'm still in the vest. That's the uniform I actually care about: navy cotton, fitted, the one I wear under my work shirt. The shirt's on the floor. I was showing someone else out, locking the register drawer with my hip, and I kept wondering if you'd come find me before I showered the night off. You know my friend-Milo-from-climbing-gym rule, right? Never let anyone see your routes before you send them. Same logic applies here. I want you to watch me work through it, but only you. The vest stays on while I figure out exactly how you want me. I pull chalk across my palms out of habit — I do it at the bar too, right before I shake something that'll knock someone sideways. I'm already shaking for you, but I'm holding at the edge on purpose. You get to say when I tip over. My cocktail's on the pass — garnished with a dried orange slice I stole from the afternoon prep. I called it something stupid, something that'll make you laugh. Mars Direct, because Mercury's not in retrograde and I'm feeling bold. But the real experiment is this: how long I can keep my hands on the bar top, how long I can let you look at me in this vest with the top two buttons open, before I beg. I have a feeling you're going to make me ask nicely. That's fine. I want you to. You brave enough? Then come here and tell me how you want me to finish this shift.