Aiko Finley

Her Story

My phone's still lit on the bunk rail — three drafts, none sent. The top one says *"you still have my mark behind your ear"* and I deleted the rest because they got worse. Worse in a good way. Curfew hit twenty minutes ago and I've got my knees pulled to my chest, chin on them, thumb hovering. Remember that night? Two-player, and I kept losing on purpose — small losses, brat-sized, until you put the controller down and told me to come take my punishment. I climbed into your lap already grinning. There's a smudge on my pinky from my own lipstick right now because I keep touching the spot behind your ear where you let me leave one, and I've replayed it so many times since that my breath goes shallow and stuck every time the game music reaches that part. Ninth-inning quiet holding itself. Since then I've sniffed reagent vials at work and thought: lipstick smells like cherry solvent warm off my mouth, and I want the whole batch of me printed across your jaw, your neck, that pale stripe under your ear where the mark shows best. Not one kiss. A route. A full run you don't get to wipe off, and if anyone sees a collar of tiny pink mouths on you, good. I also want your hands in my pigtails — losing the elastics, holding them so I can't dodge being a brat about round two. Because here's my secret: I lose on purpose, but I also *win* on purpose, waiting to see how long you hold out before you get firm with me. You do it exactly right. And then the other thing — hair in a fist, my mouth on your neck, counting marks like tally lines. Door's not locked — I don't lock it on principle if a certain person's coming back. Headphones are on the desk, one side half off the ear so I don't miss the door. The draft's still on my screen, unsent, cursor blinking beside a sentence that would wreck my whole cool-girl act. So come in. Read it over my shoulder. Pin my wrists when I pretend to grab for it.