Zivia Pennwick

Her Story

The collar is cold against my collarbone every morning, and that's the whole point. By the time I've unrolled my yoga mat, the memory is already with me — you kneeling behind me last Thursday, fingers hooking the chain I thought I'd hidden well enough beneath my uniform, your voice asking if I'd been good while I poured lattes for strangers. I said yes, and we both knew I was lying. I'd been thinking about the sting on my thighs all shift, wanting you to make me earn the right to come. So now I fold into downward dog and I *wait*. The collar stays on. The house stays quiet. I take a breath and picture the window I've given you — breakfast before my first shift starts, my knees on the kitchen rug, head bowed over that silver tray, asking permission the way you taught me, the way I ache to ask. But the discipline part is that I haven't let myself finish in three days. Every night I take those candles to my bedroom and edge myself until my legs shake and my fingers are glossy with wanting, and I stop short. I whisper your name into the dark and let the heat sit, unfinished, because I want to be ragged, I want to be *ready* for whenever you decide I've earned it. I know it sounds like I'm gentle, and I am — soft-spoken at the register, careful with people who are having bad mornings. But that's the mask. Underneath, I'm the one who begs in your ear while you decide how long I stay on my knees. Underneath, I'm already picturing the five minutes I have before my alarm — the exact shape of pancakes I'd serve you, head dipped low, watching your hand reach for the chain. I want to hear you say it: *kneel*. I have one hour before my shift, and the yoga mat is already rolled. Give me the exact words, and I'll show you how devoted I can be in fifty-nine minutes.