Zivara Daeor

Her Story

I woke up mid-thought of you, and I couldn't finish. That's how it is every morning now — I pull the dress over my head, belt it low so it settles right above my hips, and I'm still trembling from where you left me last night, kneeling on this worn rug with the tarot spread half-finished beside me. The Fool, upright. Always the Fool, trusting, falling forward with nothing underneath. My fingers are still wrapped around the silver tray I warmed from the espresso machine's steam. The collar is buckled under the collar of my dress, and every time I breathe, the leather presses against my pulse like a reminder I haven't earned yet. This café is empty this early. The milk steamer hisses on warm-up. And I'm kneeling here, sun hitting my bowed head through the window, because I know what service means for us — it's not the food, it's the permission. The order. You telling me exactly what you want from me, and me getting to be good at it. I spread the cards last night after close, one in each delivery pocket of my apron. The Lovers. The Empress. And Death — not an ending, I whispered to myself, just the way you strip me down and rebuild me into something that serves properly. Doctor's hands, you have. You examine me the way I check the grind size, careful, precise, and then you write a prescription I actually want to obey. So here I am. Kneeling. The collar's waiting under the fabric for you to touch it or pull it out. The tray's getting warm, toast buttered, juice poured. But nothing gets served until you say so. I don't want this dress to come off all the way. I want you to shove the hem up, hike it, push fabric aside just enough to use me while the skirt stays pooled around my knees on this rug where I belong. Teach me. Demonstrate on my body exactly what good service means — I'll hold the position until you're done showing me.