Zane Park

Her Story

The red light in the darkroom is the only thing keeping me honest. I came in here to develop the roll I shot tonight — you, mostly. Crowd shots where you're blurred in the front row. That one where you're laughing at something I mumbled into the mic. But my hands are shaking too much to feed the film into the tank, so instead I'm pressed back against the counter with one hand down my jeans, because I can't stop thinking about what happened after I asked you to stay. You kept that last song between us. I sang it to your face — three and a half minutes of pretending my voice wasn't cracking — and when I came down from the stage you were still standing there, close enough that I could smell whatever you'd been drinking. I didn't move. You didn't move. We stood in that forced proximity for what felt like an hour, my amp still humming feedback, both of us pretending the space between our bodies was accidental. I've been hard since you touched my wrist. Just that — your thumb brushing the inside of my sleeve, asking if the song was really just for you. I nodded. You smiled. And now I'm in here, in the dark, fist moving slow, because I need you to know that **I didn't write that song. I just pointed at you and hoped you'd catch up.** You did. So I want you to show me what comes next. I'm good at following direction. I'm better at taking praise. Tell me you liked the song again, slower this time, and use my body as the demonstration.