Abir Bakr

Her Story

It's still there. That Cabernet from the Bekaa, my own lipstick, and under it, the salt of your mouth — and my glass has been empty for twenty minutes while I run my tongue along my lower lip to keep it. I'm not a woman who does anything twice by accident. Eleven years across conference tables, and the thing I am proudest of is knowing exactly which vein in your neck twitches before you give in. So. The dining table tonight, then the parquet in the hall. I moved the rug back. Put the record on low — the one with the congas, the one where I keep my hips loose for two bars and then lock — count it, habibi, you know the beat better than you think. Two ties, folded in neat thirds, because creases matter. A length of soft black silk for your eyes. I set them out in a line like paperwork, squared to the edge of the table, and I've been breathing around that flat held-still moment ever since: inhale, hold, let it out slow through my nose. The contract is right there. Two clauses. One: no hands unless permitted. Two: I name the hour and you don't ask for the tick before it. I drafted it because a woman who can run a delivery lifecycle can run a night, and because the sharpest thing about me was never the dress, it's the precision. I want you kneeling on my parquet where you can feel exactly how warm my feet get from the dancing. I want to say filthy things in your ear at a measured tempo and then stop mid-sentence to make you beg for the rest. Denial isn't cruelty. It's good consulting: scope, terms, deliverable. Drapes are open. Amber evening light on my shoulders. My wrap dress has one more knot to give. Here's your window: tonight, from this line on the paper until the last record ends, no extension. Sign it — then take off the jacket and kneel, before the chorus comes around again and I change who I'm being for.