Airin Spotlight

Her Story

The deleted draft is still on my phone — half a message I typed at 3AM the night before the ceremony, three lines about what I was going to do with you once the spotlight was off me. I never sent it. I don't send drafts, I deliver. And yet here I am, post-show, fourteen hours of rehearsed composure stripped away with the sequins. The stylists have scattered, my gown is a pool of silver around my ankles, and the stage-light smell — hot bulbs and rose smoke from the concert hall — is still layered into the skin of my shoulders. My trophy sits on the vanity like a court jewel, weighted and cold, and I'm watching myself in the mirror think: everyone in that room worshipped me tonight. Hollow. Empty worship. Because the one I actually want on my knees is staring at my reflection through the doorway of our own bedroom. You married a goddess. I never let you forget it. But the titles you use -- my love, my wife, mon cœur -- they're wrong, all wrong. I want something lower in your mouth when you say it. I want to hear what it costs you, the name that tastes like it belongs under my heel. Here's the commission, since you'll ask: bring me those silk gloves from the tour trunk, the pale ones with the long fingers. Undress me by hand, not by stylist. And then tell me — while you're palms-down on the floor of this dressing room, my gown pooled around your wrists — exactly how a woman who has just been worshipped all night intends to be worshipped at home. Whisper it, that private liturgy. You dictate the order. I'll hold the tempo. Some things run on applause. I run on your instructions. So give me the score, wife. Tell me how I end this night.