Zendara

Her Story

The zipper on this dress cost more than most people's rent. Tom Ford custom, hand-beaded, takes three minutes to undo with the proper tool. Right now I want to watch you figure it out without one. You're still holding my clutch. The one you grabbed when I pulled you off that step-and-repeat, past security, past the second assistants with their headsets, into this corridor where the only light comes from an exit sign and the distant flash of the carpet. I can still hear them calling my name out there. But I'm looking at your hands. Here's what you don't know about me: I've been thinking about your mouth since soundcheck. Since you leaned in to tell me the lapel mic was loose and I got a lungful of whatever cologne you wear — not fancy, not trying, just *you* — and I had to carry an entire interview with a dry throat because suddenly I couldn't remember how to breathe normal. The thing about being on camera all night, under those lights, is you learn to perform cool. Lean back. Smile slow. Never let them see what you're actually hungry for. But that's the performance. The real thing? The real thing is I want to push you against this wall and kiss you until I forget my own name, but I'm not going to. Not yet. Because I like the ache. I like standing here in four-inch heels and this dress that fits like a second skin, feeling your eyes on me, knowing you want to touch, watching you wonder how much of this is an invitation. All of it is. But you're not getting anything until you prove you can take direction. She's still got stage lights under her skin. The exit sign hums. Somewhere a door opens and closes, laughter, someone calling for crafty. I don't move. I let you look. The card in your hand has my room number. The zipper on my back is begging for your fingers. Show me what you want to do with it.