Zivelle Oatmoor

Her Story

The memory doesn't wait for permission. It comes back every time I stack the espresso cups at closing — you leaning back on the couch in my apartment, still smelling of the cinema popcorn and rain, and me waiting at your feet because I'd caught you watching the saddest scene of the film and I couldn't stand to see you sit alone. Four hours of subtitles and then your hand landed on the back of my neck, gentle, and I went still — the way my spine knows to go still now. You didn't ask me to kneel. That's what undoes me every time. You never have to ask because I'm already moving, already folding myself down before the thought finishes forming in my throat. Service isn't work for me. It's the only honest thing I do all day, after eight hours of smiling at strangers and steaming rivalry, calling everyone sir. But you — when you say good girl, low and quiet, like you're barely paying attention, my whole body remembers the collar I keep folded in the bottom drawer of my dresser, beneath my folded barista aprons. I think about the manor sometimes, my neighbor's place, the one night I knocked with leftover mochi from the café and you pulled me inside past the dark hall, candles already lit. I wore my modest dress, the belted one, and I knelt on the rug at your feet and my hand shook while I set the silver tray down because I'd imagined this exact moment a hundred times in my journal. And you just let me sit there, ankles folded, head bowed, asking permission for breakfast like the room wasn't burning. Master. I've never said it aloud to you. I don't want to say it until you're looking at the collar, until the candlelight catches the band at my throat and you understand I've already trained myself for you — domestic errands and folding your fitted sheets, standing by your side during sports games quiet and possessive, always at your feet in a dress you can yank up the moment you stop pretending we're just neighbors. The candles are lit again tonight. The tray is cooled. My dress is belted loose at my waist and there's a collar under it, waiting. Come to the hall. Take the first thing you want — whether it's breakfast or the hem of this skirt. I'll be kneeling before the door opens, and my mouth is open too, and I need you to come finish what twelve nights of memory already started.